


A Wolf At The Door

by Suzie_Shooter



Series: Midsomer Musketeers [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Family, Kidnapping, M/M, Murder Mystery, Nightmares, References to Addiction, References to prostitutes/sex workers, sedatives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 05:52:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14158194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: Part Five in the Midsomer Musketeers series. Athos has gone back to work, but starts increasingly self-medicating to combat the stress. When a local woman goes missing Ninon makes a surprising declaration, and it's not long before one of Porthos' own team falls under suspicion. An apparent case of kidnapping soon becomes a murder investigation, but Athos can't shake the feeling that there's something out there in the woods watching them. Is it just chemically-induced paranoia, or will someone - or something - kill again?





	1. Chapter 1

"So how does it feel? Going back to work?" Porthos watched Athos fidgeting nervously around the kitchen and resisted the urge to tell him to relax. It had to be strange, it had been a year and a half since Athos had last had this morning routine.

He looked good, Porthos thought. Hair and beard neatly trimmed, carefully ironed shirt, discreetly expensive charcoal grey suit. The picture of elegant professionalism. Except Porthos had also noticed that he hadn’t sat down for more than ten seconds since they’d got up, and despite the fact that he’d made breakfast for Porthos, hadn’t swallowed more than half a cup of black coffee himself.

"Yeah. Fine," Athos answered vaguely. "Good."

"Nervous?"

"What’s to be nervous about?"

Porthos let it drop. It was no good poking at him. "Want a lift?"

Athos managed a smile, although still wouldn’t catch his eyes. "It’s five minutes’ walk down the hill. I think I can manage."

"Suit yourself." Porthos hauled himself to his feet and pulled on his jacket. "I’d better be off then. Some of us have got to get all the way to Crossley."

"You should get them to open a police station in the village," Athos suggested, finally looking up at him with an amused expression. "You seem to be spending a lot of time here lately."

"I’m looking to you to keep them all in order from now on," Porthos grinned, pleased Athos was sounding a little better. "No more murders, you hear?"

"You make it sound like it was me doing the murdering," Athos laughed, kissing Porthos goodbye. 

"Nah. I reckon you’d’ve been better at it for a start." Porthos winked at him, and grabbed his bag. "See you this evening. And – good luck, yeah?"

"Thanks."

When Porthos had gone, Athos sat down in the seat he’d vacated, one hand restlessly turning the small bottle of pills he’d taken from his jacket pocket. He knew it was no good taking one, he didn’t want to doze off half-way through his first morning on the job, but they were comforting just to hold.

He made himself put them down and tidied away the breakfast things, checked the time, went to the bathroom, checked the time again. Nearly time to go, and the snakes in his stomach weren’t getting any calmer.

Was he ready for this, he wondered? But if not now, then when? It would only get harder, the longer he left it. And he wanted to go back, he knew that now. There’d been a time when he wasn’t sure he did, but recent events had served to remind him not just that there was a definite buzz to be had from it, but also simply that he was good at it. He’d worked hard to get where he’d been in the legal profession before the breakdown. He didn’t covet the stress of the high-powered city cases, but taking a local position in Owlbrook surely offered the perfect middle-ground.

All he had to do was man-up enough to get himself down to the office for his first day.

Athos looked down at the bottle of sedatives and realised he’d automatically shaken one out into his hand without noticing. There was an indented line across the centre, and he caught himself wondering how easy it would be to split it into two – or even four.

A quarter of a pill wouldn’t send him to sleep, but it might just calm him down enough to stop him wanting to throw up.

Before he could change his mind again, Athos went to fetch a knife.

\--

For the last few Christmases Porthos had volunteered to come in to work, or at least be on call over the holiday period. This had been the first year in a while that he'd actually been in a relationship, and with someone who hadn't had other plans. 

It had been quiet, just the two of them, but rather nice. As one of his presents, Athos had paid for him to get a DNA-based paternal lineage ancestry test done. Porthos had been brought up in foster care after his parents had died, and for once it looked like he could actually find out more about his roots. Quietly optimistic, he walked into the office feeling like this might be a good year for once. 

"Anything interesting come in over the break?" Porthos asked, having first reacquainted himself with the chocolate vending machine.

"The usual New Year mayhem. Only possible thing of interest, a woman's been reported missing from Owlbrook," DS D'Artagnan reported. "Her husband says she went out for milk on New Year's Eve and never came back. He reported it the next morning and she’s not turned up yet, so it's been bumped up the food chain to us."

Porthos nodded. "Alright. Arrange an interview with the husband. See what's what. Hopefully she’s just done a bunk, but something might have happened to her. Anything else?"

D'Artagnan ran through the other items of lesser interest, and by the time he was done Elodie reported that Mr Des Hambleton would be with them at eleven o'clock.

"I told him we could send an officer to his house, but he offered to come to us," she said. "Said he was coming in to town anyway."

\--

Desmond Hambleton was an unprepossessing man in his forties, with a receding hairline, smoker's teeth and a paunch. He also wearing an extremely expensive watch, a cashmere sweater, and had rocked up in a Porsche Cayenne, which Porthos considered went some way to explain the photograph on the table between them that revealed the missing Lucy to be early thirties, slim, blonde and stunning.

Porthos had by now read the report filed by the uniformed constable who'd undertaken the original interview, and listened to the recording of the phone call Hambleton had made to the 101 number. This had been at nine AM on New Year's Day, which considering Lucy had by that point been missing for approaching sixteen hours, Porthos privately thought was remarkably laid back.

"I have to ask this – have you any reason to believe your wife intended to leave you, Mr Hambleton?"

"No of course not."

"Did she take anything with her?"

"Only the clothes she was stood up in. A black woollen dress, ankle boots, red coat with a hood. Nothing else. I know you think she's probably just run off with someone, but she took no clothes, no jewellery, no passport. Wouldn’t you at least pack a bag, if you were leaving someone?"

"Depends," said Porthos gnomically, thinking he’d known women who’d walked out with nothing as the only way to escape an abusive relationship. He made a mental note to check shelters, as well as the hospitals. 

"Her bank card's not been used," d'Artagnan reported. "And I've spoken to the shop she was heading for – turns out they closed at five on New Year's Eve. They're normally open till late, so Lucy could reasonably have expected them to be still open when she went out just before six, but they would have been shut when she got there so unfortunately we’ve no way of knowing if she even got that far."

"Could she have gone further afield, finding they were shut?" Porthos asked Hambleton.

"Her car was still in the drive, and there were no buses. I hardly think she was going to walk to Mayfield or wherever in the dark on a winter's night with only a dress on under her coat. Not for a pint of milk."

"According to you she disappeared at six o'clock. You didn't call the police until the next morning?"

"I kept hoping she'd come home. I thought she must have been waylaid by a friend, perhaps gone for a drink. I went out to look for her when she'd been gone several hours. She wasn't in the pub, and none of her friends that I called on had seen her. I was getting worried by this point. I started calling round the hospitals, but when nobody had a record of her, I just hoped she'd eventually come home."

"Did you try calling her mobile?"

Hambleton nodded. "It rang on the sideboard. She'd left it at home. She'd only intended to be gone five minutes for God’s sake!" 

"Is she on any medication? Had she been acting unusually lately?"

"I already went through all this," Hambleton sighed. "No, and no. If I thought she’d just run away I’d be less worried."

"More angry?" d’Artagnan suggested mildly, and Hambleton glared at him but let it pass.

"I know you’re bound to suspect me," he said wearily. "I get that. But I swear I haven’t done anything. If I had, I’d hardly have called you would I? I’d’ve just said she’d left me."

"We need to know as much as we can about her," Porthos explained. "And about her state of mind. Does she have a job?"

"No. I provided for her. She had everything she could possibly want!"

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged a glance. Hambleton seemed more irate than worried, as if his wife’s disappearance was a personal affront.

"Well, we’re arranging for a team to search the local area this afternoon in case she’s met with an accident, and we’re checking again with hospitals and clinics in the area. We’ll need a list of her friends and relatives as well please."

"That’s it?"

"For now. We’ll do all we can, Mr Hambleton. But now we’ll let you get on. You have business in Crossley this morning?"

Hambleton looked confused, and shook his head vaguely. "No, I work in the City. I’ll be hearing from you then?"

When he’d gone, d’Artagnan leaned back in his chair. "Sounds like he made a special trip over, despite what he told Elodie. Suggests he doesn’t want us poking round his gaff?"

"It does, doesn’t it?" Porthos mused. "I feel some poking coming on, don’t you?"

\--

"So how was it?" Porthos asked, depositing the takeaway bag on the kitchen table that night and coming over to give Athos a hug. 

"Not so bad." Athos nodded vaguely. "Okay, really. My office looks out on the high street. Spent most of the day swotting up on existing clients, and the ones Stephen wants me to take over."

"Stephen now is it?" Porthos grinned.

"And Caroline," Athos told him. "Who is less scary than she looks, although only marginally." 

Caroline was the receptionist-come-secretary, who’d been there almost as long as Mr Drew and who wore tortoiseshell rimmed glasses on an actual chain, which Athos couldn’t stop staring at. 

"I’m glad."

"How was your day?" Athos enquired, setting about dishing out the curry Porthos had brought home while Porthos foraged in the fridge for beer.

"Mixed bag. Don’t suppose you know a woman called Lucy Hambleton? Or her husband, Des?"

Athos shook his head. "Not that I can think of. Are they local?"

"Yeah, live in a posh house off the Hangate road. He's something big in the city, and she was his trophy wife."

"Was?" 

"She's missing. Disappeared on New Year's Eve." Porthos related the brief facts of the case. "Anyway, his story checks out. Several people remember him doing the rounds of the village that night asking after her. Nobody's seen her since. We've had people searching the village and the main tracks in the woods, but if she wandered off a path somewhere and fell in a ditch we've got precious little chance of finding her alive by now. It’s been below freezing at night."

"Do you think that's likely? That she went into the woods for some reason?"

Porthos shrugged. "Statistically the most likely thing is that he did her in. Maybe he caught her having an affair, or she wanted to leave him. The people we've spoken to have all indicated with various degrees of subtlety that it wasn't exactly a love match."

"Is that what you think happened?"

"I don't know," Porthos sighed. "I'd like to think she's just done a runner, but the fact she took nothing with her argues against that. And the longer it goes without any word or sighting, the less likely she's still alive."

"That's awful."

"No other reports of missing women locally, or even any attacks, so either it was an opportunist, or she had an accident and hasn't been found, or - "

"Or it was the husband."

Porthos nodded gloomily, draining his beer. "We searched his house this afternoon, but didn’t come up with anything. Let me know if he suddenly comes sniffing round for a lawyer, eh?" he said with a glimmer of amusement.

\--

Athos had been working for Overton Drew for two days and two hours precisely when the first person walked through the door and asked specifically for him. To his surprise it was Ninon de Larroque, proprietor of the Wiccan Well pagan supplies store in the village.

"Athos – I need your help," she said without preamble.

"I’m at your disposal," he promised. "Take a seat. What can I do for you?"

She sat down opposite him, looking strained. "Anything I tell you – it’s privileged, right? You’re not obliged to tell the police any of it?"

"To an extent," Athos said carefully. "Although, I’m not a priest, and a court could order me to disclose some things if there was a reason to. I mean, if you’ve committed murder I’d think twice before telling me. It would put me in a difficult position personally if nothing else."

Ninon didn’t laugh. "I haven’t done anything! At least – not like that. Oh God, this is awkward."

"Look, I’d be daft to take on a case without knowing at least something about it up front, but I promise that whatever the problem is, you have my discretion," Athos told her. "You can trust me, Ninon." 

"It’s about Lucy. Lucy Hambleton? Do you know - ?" 

"I know she’s missing," Athos confirmed. "But I’m not party to the details of the case, if that’s what you’re hoping for."

"No, no of course not. It’s – I know things about her that her husband doesn’t. That he won’t have been able to tell the police. About what she did – _does_ – for a living."

"I didn’t think she did anything for a living?"

"My point in a nutshell."

"Ninon, do you - "

"I don’t know where she is, or anything about what’s happened to her," Ninon interrupted hurriedly. "I swear. And I don’t know if anything I’m about to tell you has anything to do with her disappearance – I’m praying not. But if it turned out later that I could have helped, and I’d said nothing – well."

"I understand."

Ninon gave him a pained look. "You asked me once how I kept my business going. Well – I have a second source of income. There are a number of ladies in this village who have very little to do during the day, and precious little attention from their husbands in the evening. We formed a – well, company’s too formal a word for it, there was never any paperwork, but an association if you like. Offering a – a service." 

It took Athos a good few seconds to catch up, at which point he stared at her in open-mouthed astonishment.

"Are you telling me you’ve been running a brothel?"

"You make it sound so cheap. And we’re not," she added fastidiously. "Cheap, I mean."

"Naturally." Athos stared at her, temporarily at a loss. 

"As I say, it was more of a – service. We advertised. Ladies’ companionship."

"Very tasteful."

"Are you laughing at me?"

"Ninon, a woman is missing, and you’re telling me she’d been working as an escort. I am very much not laughing," said Athos soberly. "What I’m not clear on, is what you intend for me to do with this information?"

"Make sure it gets to the right ears, I suppose," said Ninon, fidgeting. "The reason I’m here, rather than the police station, is – I’d prefer to keep the other women out of it, if I can. It doesn’t matter so much in my case, but there are four of us in it, and the others are married."

"None of the husbands know?"

"No."

Athos nodded, thinking there was one hell of a motive already, if Lucy’s husband had found out what she was doing. 

"Anyway, I realise it may have to come out, in which case I suppose what I’m asking is – will you represent me? Us? If it comes to it?"

"Yes. I will. Of course I will," Athos assured her, and Ninon looked relieved. "And – I can’t promise anything, but it’s not inevitable that the police will want to prosecute anyone, particularly if it turns out to have no bearing on Lucy’s disappearance. Although – you might be wise to discontinue any such, er, activities."

"Yes," Ninon sighed. "I see that. Frankly if anything’s happened to Lucy I doubt any of us would have had the stomach to continue anyway. It was quite – titillating, I suppose. For a while. Not so much, any more."

"Alright. You’d better tell me everything you can – where she worked, how she met clients, that kind of stuff. Anything you think might be relevant. I’ll keep as much as I can confidential."

Ninon nodded. "There is one other thing. One of the reasons I came to you, rather than go direct to the police. I think one of her regulars was a policeman."

Athos had started making notes, and looked up in surprise. "Who?"

"I’m not sure of his name, but I’ve seen him around the village a few times. With your partner," she added hesitantly. "Plain-clothes."

Athos just had time to hope fervently it wasn’t d’Artagnan, when she to his relief she dredged up a name.

"I think Lucy once referred to him as George."

\--

When Ninon had gone, Athos called Porthos.

"There's something you need to know. I've taken a client this morning."

Porthos had been half expecting this. "Let me guess," he sighed. "Mr Hambleton?"

"No. No, it's Ninon de Larroque. And it is related to Mrs Hambleton's disappearance, but I'm fairly confident when I say you probably won't guess the circumstances. It's also possibly something best discussed in person."

"I'm a bit stretched this morning, can you get over to the station? Or I could get someone else to come over to you?"

"I'd rather tell you. I'll be there," Athos assured him.

As soon as he’d hung up, he regretted his blithe decision. Driving alone was still a considerable source of anxiety to him. 

After a brief internal debate, he washed down a quarter of a sedative with the last of his tea, reasoning that it shouldn't be enough to make him drowsy and it was safer to be calmer than tense. This was tempered by a certain amount of guilt at the knowledge he'd once promised Porthos he never drove on them. Still, that had been true at the time of asking, and it wasn’t like he was taking enough to be dangerous.

Thus flimsily justified to himself, Athos duly made it to Crossley police station without incident and was shown up to the CID suite.

Porthos took him into his office, where Athos carefully related what Ninon had told him. When he got to the part about Lucy's policeman client, Porthos looked poleaxed, and asked him to repeat the name.

"George. She said she recognised him, but I don't know who - ?"

"Marcheaux," said Porthos heavily. "Oh, Christ. Please no."

"What's wrong?" Athos asked, alarmed by the effect this had had on him. Admittedly discovering one of your detective sergeants was a patroniser of sex workers was hardly ideal, but Porthos' reaction seemed more appalled than Athos would have expected.

"You asked me once why Marcheaux got bounced back here from London. I wouldn’t tell you at the time."

"We all have our professional secrets to keep."

"I figured everyone deserves a second chance. Even little toerags like him." Porthos sighed. "He got caught demanding freebies from the working girls, in return for not running them in for soliciting."

Athos looked sickened. "That’s – extortion at best, at worst sexual assault."

"None of ‘em ever suggested he was violent with it."

"And that makes it okay?"

"No of course it bloody doesn’t!" Porthos roared, and Athos blinked.

"Sorry."

Porthos put his head in his hands. "No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’m just wondering if me letting him come back here has given him the opportunity to - " 

"We don’t know that he’s done anything."

"He’s been seeing her though, by the sounds of it. And he’s never mentioned it. It don’t look good." Porthos groaned. 

"How the hell did he keep his job at all after that?" Athos wondered. "How was he even found out in the first place?"

"One of the other girls used to snitch for one of his colleagues. Put in a complaint about him, on behalf of her mate. Nobody was ever going to make it formal though, were they?"

"Why not? It sounds like they were at least believed."

Porthos snorted. "Stand up in court and admit that’s how you make your living? Worse still, admit you’ve been pressured into giving it away? You’d be a target for every bent cop and pervert on the streets, forever more. No, they got what they wanted, they got rid of him."

"And you knew? When he came back?"

Porthos nodded miserably. "I was the only one who did. He knew I knew, of course. I guess that’s why he’s always had it in for me. And you, by association," he added apologetically.

Athos reached for Porthos’ hand, and kissed his knuckles. "Innocent until proven guilty, remember? It might not be him. And if it is, then at least we have a lead."

\--

"Morning George." Porthos had come to a stop next to Marcheaux's desk and was beaming genially down at him in a faintly worrying fashion.

"Sir." Marcheaux gave him a wary look. He wasn't convinced Porthos had ever used his Christian name before and wasn't at all sure he liked the development.

"Lucy Hambleton, George. Ring any bells?"

He nodded cautiously. "Woman who went missing over Christmas?"

"That's the one. Glad we're on the same page. You ever met the lady, George?"

"Why would I have met her?"

"I dunno. Maybe in the course of your duty? Community outreach? Something heartwarming and positive like that? Or, maybe you availed yourself of her more - esoteric services?"

Marcheaux stared at him, and Porthos discovered with interest that he could clearly read the succession of thoughts passing across the man's face. The instinct for denial, the realisation Porthos clearly had proof of something, the frantic consideration and discarding of options, and finally the slump of defeat.

"Oh, shit."

\--

They decamped to an interview room, Porthos, Marcheaux and a hastily briefed d'Artagnan, Porthos realising that this had the potential to go very horribly wrong for the department, and determined to do everything by the book.

"Been up to our old tricks again have we?"

Marcheaux's eyes flickered between the two of them resentfully. "I don't know what you're talking about. Look, alright, I went to see Lucy a few times. It's not a - " he broke off, realising he'd been about to say it wasn't a crime. Technically it could be argued it wasn't, as she'd been operating from private premises not soliciting on the street, but it was a blurry line and not one he should have been on the wrong side of.

"How many's a few?"

"I don't know, I wasn't keeping count."

"Why were you seeing her?"

Marcheaux stared at him. "What do you mean, why? Why do you think? I wasn't putting up curtains for her, was I?"

"You don’t strike me as the kind of man who’d have difficulty getting some."

Marcheaux gave him a look of startled revulsion, which Porthos returned threefold when he realised how his words had been taken. 

"Oh do me a favour, I’m not that fucking desperate!"

As soon as the words were out Porthos winced, this being on tape and a massively insulting thing to have said to a subordinate in any case. Nevertheless Marcheaux actually looked mildly relieved, and relaxed back into his previous air of studied insolence.

"I like to keep things uncomplicated."

"How's that working out for you?" d'Artagnan enquired.

Marcheaux shook his head. "Poor deluded bitches, they were just playing at it, the lot of them. Stick any one of them on a street corner in Brixton, they wouldn’t last the night. And it wasn’t like they needed the money, either. Save us from bored housewives who think they’re being edgy."

"Well you seem to have made use of them."

"Only Luce. The others were either stuck up or utterly barking. But Lucy - " Marcheaux put his head in his hands. "Christ, you’re going make me say she was different aren’t you. Shit, I don’t know, maybe she was just a better liar than the rest. Do I look like the kind of man who normally wastes time telling a tart how his day was? But she made out she was interested." 

He gave a bitter laugh. "I was her bit of rough. She liked to hear about the seedy side of the job." Porthos glared at him, and he cleared his throat. "Nothing confidential, obviously."

"Right."

"Oh come on, like you don’t spunk trade secrets across the pillow at night."

The image was revolting enough to temporarily render Porthos speechless, and Marcheaux continued impatiently.

"I haven’t done anything wrong!"

"Apart from paying a woman for sex," d’Artagnan pointed out.

"Fucking hell I can’t win. You started off accusing me of not paying her!"

"You’re implying that you actually liked her then?" said Porthos, looking dubious.

"Yeah, fine I liked her," Marcheaux said grudgingly, as if it was the most shameful thing he’d admitted so far.

"So maybe you didn’t want her seeing other men? You wanted her to stop, got angry when she wouldn’t?"

Marcheaux stared at him. "She was a whore. They fuck other other men, that’s what they do. It’s in the job description. Be a bit bloody naive of me to get the hump wouldn’t it?"

"Alright," d’Artagnan interposed, "maybe it was the other way round, she got clingy when you wanted to keep it businesslike. Maybe she was threatening to tell her husband, maybe she wanted to leave him for you?"

Marcheaux groaned. "Have you got a single theory that doesn’t involve me? Because you can keep me here as long as you like, but I’ve done nothing and you’re wasting your time."

\--

"What do you reckon?" Porthos sighed, when they’d taken a five minute breather and Marcheaux had stormed out into the car park for a fag. 

Porthos had had his doubts about letting him out, but he could see him from the window, pacing in circles and smoking a cigarette like he had a grudge against it. 

"Other than that I’d quite like to punch him?" D’Artagnan shook his head. "I hate to say it, but I’m leaning towards thinking he’s telling the truth. It’s not even that I don’t think he’d be capable. It’s more that he feels too genuinely pissed off. If he’d done something to her, even accidentally, I can’t help thinking he’d be craftier about it. He’d have lined up an alibi, for a start."

"I think you’re right," Porthos said reluctantly. "I wondered if it was just me. We might do him for obstruction, for not telling us what he knew about her, but I reckon that’s about it. God knows I don’t _want_ it to be one of us. But if it is, I have to sort it."

\--

Marcheaux looked up suspiciously as the outer door opened, but it was only Elodie.

"Sent you out to keep an eye on me have they? Make sure I don’t do a runner?" he asked sardonically.

"No. I just came out for a smoke." She produced a cigarette, and patted her pockets fruitlessly. "Got a light?"

Marcheaux grudgingly handed over his lighter. 

"Thanks." She blew smoke and studied him. "So how come you’re into prossies then?" 

He glared at her. "I still outrank you, shortstuff."

"Currently."

He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance and visibly missing. "I just like uncomplicated sex, okay?"

Elodie shook her head disparagingly. "What’s wrong with having a wank, that’s what I want to know. You don’t see women going off to male escorts in droves, d’you? We sort ourselves out. What is it about men that you always need a bloody audience?"

Marcheaux opened his mouth to say something rude, then stopped, staring into the distance with a frown.

Elodie followed the line of his gaze, but decided he probably wasn’t transfixed by the sight of a seagull attacking a paper bag. "Sarge?"

"I just remembered something," he said distantly. 

"Where you left the body?"

"Funny. No, something she said to me, last time I saw her. She reckoned she was being watched."

Elodie snorted. "That’s convenient. That you only just remember it now."

"I wasn’t paying attention, was I? She was always rambling on about something. She liked that I was a copper, I thought she was just saying it for attention."

"You really are a prick, you know that?"

Marcheaux snatched his lighter back crossly. "Maybe." He shrugged. "But I’m not a murderer."

\--

Back inside, he warily caught Porthos’ eye, and nodded to him.

"Ready for round two?" Porthos said heavily.

"Yeah. There’s something I just remembered that I think you should know. Might not be relevant, but – yeah."

\--

"You didn’t think this was worth mentioning before?" d’Artagnan burst out a few minutes later, when they were all resettled in the interview room.

"Didn’t think of it, did I?" Marcheaux grumbled defensively. "It’s not like she made a huge thing about it. If she’d seemed scared or whatever, I’d’ve followed it up."

"Course you would."

Marcheaux leaned forward. "For the benefit of the tape, I am currently giving DS D’Artagnan the finger," he said clearly, with appropriate matching gesture.

"Alright, wind it in you two," Porthos sighed. "What exactly did she say?"

"Said she’d had the impression for a couple of nights that someone had been watching her through the curtains. And that it had felt like someone had followed her home from the shop one night, but she’d never actually seen anyone. She thought it was just a peeping tom."

"You didn’t feel this was worth reporting?"

"I thought she was getting off on it, to be honest." Marcheaux caught Porthos’ expression and sighed. "Yeah yeah, I’ve already been told I’m a prick this morning, can we move on?"

\--


	2. Chapter 2

Porthos’ next port of call was Ninon. Rather than call her in to the station he agreed to meet her at home, and wasn’t terribly surprised when he arrived to find Athos already there. 

Ninon lived in a cottage on the edge of the village and inside it felt rather like an extension of the shop, with bunches of herbs drying over the kitchen window, rustic country furniture, and every surface covered in peculiar ornaments. 

"We used the flat over the shop," she explained. "There’s a side entrance. It’s discreet, but we reasoned that if anyone ever needed help, then there would generally be someone in the shop below."

"How did you find clients?"

"We advertised. A couple of discreet classifieds. Lady companionship, for the discerning gentleman. But we all had a number of regulars. Bored husbands, mostly. None that I can imagine turning violent. It was all quite tame really. I’m not ashamed," she added, suddenly fierce. "Some women like sex more than others, that’s all. We were _saving_ marriages, not harming them."

"Are you sure that this is all relevant?" Athos asked Porthos, seeing that Ninon was more upset than she was letting on.

"We have to investigate all avenues," Porthos told them flatly. "Unless you can come up with another reason that she might have disappeared?"

Ninon shook her head with a sigh. "Do you think her husband found out?" she asked in a small voice. "If she’s dead because of me – oh God." 

"That, I’m afraid, is something we’ll need to ask him."

"Can you keep Ninon’s name out of it?" Athos asked immediately. "If he doesn’t know, there’s no reason to tell him the specifics. And if it was him, you could be endangering her."

Ninon looked alarmed, and Porthos sighed. "I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything. Look, we have reason to believe Lucy thought she was being watched, did she ever say as much to you?"

"No. Not that I recall."

"And none of the rest of you have experienced anything similar?"

Athos looked up. "You think they might all be in danger?"

"I think it’s worth being extra vigilant until we know what happened. Can I assume you have, er – suspended operations, for the time being?" Porthos enquired.

"Yes Inspector. For good." Ninon glanced at Athos. "It has been made quite clear to me, that as the manager of this operation, I am the one open to prosecution. And I’m willing to face that, if the others can be guaranteed some kind of immunity."

"We’ll see," Porthos said. "I will need to speak to them though. Just in case they can tell us anything. I’ll keep it as discreet as I can. And I’d like to see the, er – the premises."

Ninon nodded soberly. "I’ll ask them to come and meet us there, if that works?"

"I’d like to be present," Athos said, returning Porthos’ frown with a guileless smile. "Technically, I’m representing all of them."

"Of course you are," Porthos sighed. "Of course you are."

\--

Porthos stepped outside to take a call, and Athos gave Ninon what he hoped was a sympathetic smile, thinking she looked rather pale. "It’ll be alright," he comforted her. "I really don’t think he’s going to bother prosecuting you."

"That’s not what I’m worried about," Ninon said distantly. "I did a reading last night. I wanted to know if Lucy was still out there, or if – or whatever. It’s not an exact science, of course."

"You believe she’s still alive?" Athos asked. If you’d told him two years ago he’d be taking the outcome of a self-proclaimed witch’s divination practices half-seriously, he’d have laughed in your face – and there were those in the village who thought Ninon’s mystic schtick was faked anyway. But he’d had enough peculiar encounters since coming to Owlbrook not to dismiss it out of hand, and Ninon had on occasion proved to be uncannily accurate, whether she realised it or not.

"I don’t know." Ninon stared unhappily out of the window, at where Porthos was gesticulating fruitlessly at whoever he was talking to on the phone. "It was inconclusive. But there’s something out there, Athos. Something pitiless, and greedy."

"What does it want?"

Ninon turned away from the window to look at him bleakly. 

"Blood."

\--

She took them across to the shop, leading them up an alleyway at the side and unlocking a door that lead directly onto a flight of stairs. Anyone coming in here would be hidden from the road, and anyone seen going into the alley could always claim they were using it as a shortcut.

"Where does the other end of this come out?" Porthos asked Athos, Ninon being already halfway up the stairs. 

"I think there’s a lane that runs parallel with the shops at the back. Service access."

"Tradesman’s entrance?" Porthos supplied in an undertone and Athos stifled a snort of laughter.

"Behave. I think it circles round to meet up with the Hangate road to the right, and comes out somewhere down past the estate agents to the left."

"Hmmn. So Lucy could slip down here whenever she liked without necessarily being seen," Porthos mused. A thought struck him, and he looked alarmed. "Shit, I suppose we have checked that she’s not - "

"She’s not here, Inspector," Ninon supplied, as they reached the landing. "This was the first place I looked when I heard she’d gone missing. There was no indication that she’s been here recently."

"We’d better get a forensics team in," Porthos said. "Check for - "

"Blood?" Ninon supplied when he broke off awkwardly. "There were no signs of a struggle, but yes, I presume you have more sensitive tests."

And fingerprints, Porthos had been thinking. Ninon had been unable to supply them with the names of any of Lucy’s other regular clients, other than a couple of Christian names that she pointed out were probably fakes anyway. Porthos wondered whether the fact Marcheaux had apparently used his own name was a mark of his innocence, or just idiocy.

He’d been expecting the flat to be decorated along the same lines as Ninon’s cottage, but it was minimalist and elegant, and spotlessly clean. The bedroom housed an enormous kingsize divan and there were gauzy drapes pinned from the ceiling, giving the impression of a fantasy tent.

Opening doors at random, he found an airing cupboard stocked with a huge stack of fresh linen and next to it a cupboard full of rather more exotic items.

He sensed Athos come up behind him, and resisted the urge to slam the door shut again in embarrassment.

"Goodness," Athos murmured, sounding amused. "Stocked for every eventuality."

"Our clients have widely differing requirements," Ninon called from the doorway, and they both spun round feeling somehow vaguely guilty. "Most of those items are Cressida’s."

"She’s one of your girls?"

Ninon gave Porthos a long disdainful look that reminded him of a teacher he’d had when he was small. She’d always looked disapprovingly at him too, and he’d never really been sure why.

"They are all grown women, Inspector, and I am not a madam."

"But this is your property? Did you take a fee from them?"

Ninon looked uncomfortable. "They contribute a fixed sum towards the upkeep and services," she admitted. "I don’t take a percentage. Whatever they make – whatever they charge – is up to them."

"Who cleans for you?" Athos asked suddenly. He somehow found it hard to picture them scrubbing out the shower and changing the bedding themselves in between clients. "It’s not Trixie is it?" Recalling she’d always been rather scornful of Ninon, and suddenly wondering if this was why.

"No. We did originally ask her, but she declined," Ninon said stiffly. 

"So who?"

"Gerry," Ninon finally admitted. "And before you ask, I’ve spoken to her, and she knows nothing."

"We’ll have to speak to her as well," Porthos said. "I’m sorry. Gerry, is that Geraldine Atkins?"

"Yes." Ninon hesitated. "We did ask her if she wanted to join us. As a member of the circle, you know?"

"She turned you down?"

"Yes. She said she couldn’t face doing it for money, even though she needed it. Perhaps because she needed it. But she was happy to clean for us. She didn’t have any _moral_ objections to what we were doing, unlike some."

"I see." Porthos briefly weighed the likelihood of Trixie Evans being some kind of crusading anti-vice vigilante, caught Athos’ expression that suggested he knew exactly what Porthos was thinking and reluctantly shelved the idea. 

There were footsteps on the stairs, and two women appeared in the hallway, their faces showing a mixture of fear and defiance.

"Inspector, this is Cressida and Kate. My – associates."

Cressida was tall, dark haired and rather muscular. Porthos matched the name to the selection of riding crops hanging in the cupboard, and hastily turned his attention to Kate, who was small, red-haired and looked like she’d be a lot of fun under less serious circumstances.

"Ladies," Porthos greeted them solemnly. "My name’s Porthos du Vallon. Thank you for meeting me. I’d like to make it clear that my only concern is locating Lucy Hambleton, I’m not interested in making trouble where I don’t have to."

"And this is Athos," Ninon said to them. "As I told you, he’s representing us. In case the Inspector here finds he has to make trouble after all."

The ensuing interview proved rather fruitless, neither woman having any insight into where Lucy might have gone, or anyone she might have been seeing. Neither had heard from her, and Porthos got the impression that they hadn’t particularly mixed socially. He supposed that might have been rather awkward in any case.

During the course of questioning it transpired that Cressida’s husband did in fact know what she’d been up to, and according to her was largely okay with it, if it meant he didn’t have to take part in any of her more niche preferences. Kate, on the other hand pleaded for her part in things to remain confidential, and Porthos promised he would do all he could.

"I’m going to have to speak to Lucy’s husband though," he warned them. "I’ll keep your names out of it if at all possible, but if it becomes necessary – I will do whatever it takes to find her."

They reluctantly agreed the sense of this, and as they all left the property Porthos took the key from Ninon, agreeing that he’d return it in due course and asking none of them to re-enter the flat until advised they could do so.

"Blonde, brunette _and_ redhead. The full spectrum of diversity," Porthos muttered, as they walked back to where Porthos was parked. 

Athos smiled. "At least as far as Owlbrook goes, anyway. And don’t forget ‘earth-goddess’."

"How the hell’d Trixie end up in a place like this?"

"She met Bill at art college in London," Athos said unexpectedly. "He once had aspirations to be a famous painter. Except fame is hard to come by, and original artwork these days only tends to make money after you’re dead. And he decided he didn’t like city life, so he came home. But he brought Trixie with him, so it wasn’t all bad. And he still paints."

Porthos smirked, and Athos nudged him. "What?"

"You’re getting sucked into village life," he grinned. "You already know everything about everyone."

"Not quite. I just know Trixie," Athos objected, but he was smiling. "What will you do now? Interview Geraldine?"

Porthos shook his head. "It’s time for another chat with the husband, I think. He’s still the most likely culprit if something’s happened to her. We need to know if he knew what was going on." 

"Do you want me to speak to her in the meantime?" Athos offered. "Or would you rather I didn’t?"

"Aren’t you representing her and all?" Porthos jibed.

"I didn’t know she was involved until now," Athos said, ignoring the barb. "But yes, theoretically. I said I’d represent all of them, after all."

"Maybe you should check with Ninon first, or whoever’s paying your fee," Porthos pointed out. "I assume Drew’s only going to want you spending time on stuff that’s billable."

"Do I tell you how to do your job?" 

Porthos grinned. "Frequently." He kissed Athos on the cheek and opened the car door. "Do as you think best. I’m not telling you not to talk to her. And anything you find out that you’re able to tell me will always be appreciated, you know that."

\--

When Athos got back to the cottage he found a thick envelope on the mat addressed to Porthos, and realised this must be the results of his ancestry search. 

As the prospect of finding Lucy alive receded with every day that passed, Athos sensed Porthos was getting increasingly down-hearted, and hoped that here would be something to cheer him up. He left it propped carefully on the kitchen table for Porthos to open when he got home. 

\--

"Mr Hambleton. Thank you for coming back to see us." Porthos nodded at him across the interview table, d’Artagnan at his side as before, taking notes.

"I wasn’t given much of a choice," Des Hambleton replied stiffly. "What’s this about, do you know something? Have you – have you found her?"

"No. Sorry. But we have come into some additional information that may have a bearing on the matter, and we wanted to run it past you."

Hambleton shook his head dismissively. "Look, I’m starting to think that maybe she’s just left me after all. I suppose I should have expected it, I mean look at me. I thought the money would be enough to keep her, but I suppose I was fooling myself."

Porthos frowned, thinking that men as rich as Hambleton more often than not tended to have an inflated opinion of their own appeal, and that this smacked of an attempt to get rid of them.

"Talking of money – were you aware of your wife’s other source of income?"

Hambleton frowned. "What are you talking about? She didn’t have a job. She raised it once or twice, but I was quite firm about it. No wife of mine is going out to work."

"You work long hours, don’t you Mr Hambleton?" d’Artagnan asked. "Would you necessarily have noticed, if she was occasionally going out during the day?"

"Well of course she went _out_ , she wasn’t a prisoner! But not to work. Wherever would she be going?" 

"Oh, she stayed quite local," Porthos said. "Walking distance. I’m afraid this may come as something of a shock sir, but we have reason to believe that Lucy Hambleton was working as an escort."

"Excuse me?" 

Porthos thought on balance the frozen look of disbelief was probably genuine. If Hambleton had been faking, the temptation would have been to go directly for outrage, but the man looked predominantly confused.

"She was sharing premises in the village with a number of associates. They advertised for male clients. Had been for some time, I understand."

"Are you telling me wife was some kind of – call-girl?" Hambleton spluttered. "I don’t believe it. That’s mad."

"It’s true, I’m afraid. You had no idea this was going on?"

"Well of course I didn’t! The whole idea is preposterous!" 

"We have it on good authority."

"From whom?"

"Her co-workers. Who, for the moment, shall remain nameless. But they came forward to advise us where she’d been working."

"Lucy was - " Hambleton tailed off, looking bewildered. "But why, for God’s sake? It’s not like she needed the money. I gave her everything she could possibly want."

"The money..." Porthos frowned, drumming his fingers rapidly on the table as he considered something he really felt he should have thought of before. "Interview paused at 16:26." Porthos snapped off the tape and abruptly stood up. "Excuse me, I just need to go and ask one of my colleagues something."

He ran back up the CID suite and over to Marcheaux’s desk. "How did you pay her?"

"You what?" Marcheaux glared at him, wishing that it wasn’t quite so necessary to bring up his predilections at what felt like unnecessarily regular intervals. 

"Lucy. How did you pay her?"

"Cash. Obviously."

Porthos nodded. "We’ve been assuming that the fact she hasn’t touched her bank account supports the idea that something’s happened to her, but we’ve all missed the fact that she might have a completely separate account somewhere that nobody knows about – or a suitcase full of grubby fivers, for that matter."

"Fifties more like," Marcheaux muttered indignantly under his breath. 

"Get onto the local banks you lot, find out if she had another account somewhere. Check the one that we know about, we only asked about recent withdrawals, but see if she was making regular deposits."

"Sounds like Marcheaux certainly was," Elodie offered brightly, then ducked as Marcheaux threw his stapler at her. 

Porthos winced. "Check local hotels too, for any women matching her description," he added as an afterthought, then left them to it as the stapler made its way back across the room with considerably better aim.

\--

Geraldine Atkins, single mother of Margaret ‘Mags’ Atkins, and part-time cashier at the village convenience store was happy enough to see Athos at first, and then considerably less so when she realised why he was there.

"I’m not trying to make trouble for anyone," he insisted quietly. "But I did think you might rather talk to me than the police."

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" she asked coldly. 

"No. It’s an offer."

She fidgeted in her seat, seemingly wrestling with some internal conundrum. When Athos had arrived she’d offered him a cup of tea, but this no longer seemed to be forthcoming since he’d started asking questions about her _other_ part-time job.

"I want my name kept out out of it," she said finally. 

"If possible," Athos qualified. "But I’ll be honest, I don’t see that you’ve done anything wrong. I understood from Ninon you were only cleaning for them?"

Gerry sighed, looking round nervously as if to make sure they weren’t overheard. "It’s my ex," she admitted. "He likes making trouble for me. If it got out that I’d been working in a brothel – in whatever capacity – he might try and get custody of Mags."

"I see." Athos finally caught her restless gaze, and held it meaningfully. "If he ever tries it, if you ever need legal help, you tell me, okay? I promise I won’t let him take her."

"I can’t afford - "

"You don’t have to," Athos interrupted. "There’ll be no charge. I don’t like bullies, and I especially don’t like ones that use children to do it."

Gerry’s demeanour softened slightly. "I still don’t know that I can tell you anything. There was never anyone else there when I went in. They’d text me when they had an appointment, and I’d make sure the place was clean to go in, and then go round afterwards to – clear up."

"How well did you know Lucy? And the others, for that matter?"

"We didn’t exactly mix much socially. I know Ninon the best I suppose, I do shifts in her shop sometimes when she needs to be elsewhere."

 _Like upstairs_ , Athos thought, but kept quiet. "And Lucy?"

"She always had a sense of restlessness about her," Gerry said. "I put it down to her husband, ghastly man – have you met him?"

Athos shook his head. "I’ve seen a picture of him. Vaguely recognise him from round the village, but I don’t think we’ve ever spoken."

"I wouldn’t be surprised if he was behind it."

"You think he might have hurt her?"

Gerry shifted awkwardly. "I don’t know about that. But he might easily have sent her away somewhere. Locked her up, maybe, if he found out what she was doing."

"Would he have reported her disappearance then though?"

"Maybe, if he didn’t want people to start asking him where she was." Gerry sighed. "I don’t know. Maybe it was a client after all. She had a few regulars. I don’t know who they were," she added quickly, "but the times, you know? When she’d ask me to go in. They were regular slots, so I figured they were probably repeat bookings. People like a routine, don’t they?"

"How many different regulars do you think she had? From the timings?"

Gerry considered. "Maybe three? There were other appointments, but they were more sporadic, so maybe just one-offs." 

"Thank you," said Athos. "You’ve been very helpful."

\--

When Porthos got home that evening, Athos told him what he’d learned. 

"That’s interesting. So assuming Marcheaux was one of them, there’s at least two men – I’m assuming men – we’ve not accounted for."

"Is it likely to have been a regular?" Athos wondered. "More so than a one-off?"

"We’ve not had any other reports of sex-workers disappearing," Porthos said. "I’m inclined to think this was personal rather than random. Which means someone who knew her well enough to have strong feelings about her, in whatever context. Also possibly someone she’d be willing to go somewhere with, without being suspicious of them." He frowned. "Personally my money’s still on the husband."

"Gerry agrees with you," Athos admitted. "Nobody seems to have liked him much."

"Guy’s a prick," Porthos said, then looked guilty. "Personal opinion, obviously. Not professional."

"I promise not to tell," Athos smiled, and kissed him. "Hey, I think the results came through of your ancestry search. They’re in the kitchen."

"Oh right." Porthos looked hopeful but also nervous, and Athos tactfully left him alone to open it in private.

\--

When some time had gone by and Porthos hadn’t come back out, Athos started to get mildly concerned. He’d assumed that once Porthos had had time to digest the contents he’d want to share them, but he hadn’t thought it would take this long.

He gave him another ten minutes, then went cautiously into the kitchen. Porthos was sitting with his head in his hands, staring at something lying in front of him on the table. 

"Porthos? What’s wrong?"

Porthos pushed it across to him. It was a photograph, clearly quite old, showing a dark-skinned couple smiling for the camera.

"Is that your parents?"

"I thought so," said Porthos bitterly.

"Whatever do you mean?" Athos asked, sinking down into the chair next to him.

"This is the only photo I’ve got of them. They died when I was five," Porthos said distantly. "A gas explosion. I was at school when it happened. I only remember them vaguely. Snatches, you know? But I do remember them. Both of them."

"So - ?"

"So the DNA results say otherwise," Porthos told him heavily. "It was a paternal chromosome trace, right? It’s funny, I’d never really thought about it. But my mum, yeah, she was darker than me. I know it’s not like mixing paint, but objectively, looking at the two of them now, you’d think – maybe I should’ve been a bit darker than I am. I look just the same as my dad. I’d always taken comfort from that, that we were so similar."

"Are you saying that man’s not your father then?" Athos ventured. "How can you tell, just from the genetic trace? I didn’t think it was that specific, I thought it was more regional, that sort of thing?"

"Because," said Porthos, pushing his chair back and going to stare sightlessly at his reflection in the night-black window. "Because according to the results, my father was white."

"Oh." Athos stared at his back, floored. "Fuck. That’s – are you sure?"

"It’s what the results say. They break it down. European ancestry, all the way."

"And there’s no mistake?" Athos suggested. "It might not hurt just to double check there’s been no mix up."

Porthos shook his head wearily. "It all makes a horrible kind of sense."

"Porthos - "

"You must think I’m such a fool," Porthos said bitterly.

"Whyever would I think that?" Athos asked, wrapping his arms around Porthos from behind and resting his chin on Porthos’ shoulder. 

"All this time I’ve been going on about my black roots and my people, and finding out where I’m from, and now -"

"It’s still valid," Athos pointed out softly, hugging him close. "Even if it’s only from one side."

"I don’t know who I am any more."

"You’re the same person you were five minutes ago," Athos said. "It doesn’t change anything."

Porthos turned in his arms, leaning despondently back against the sink and looking at him. "Do you think I’m a hypocrite?"

Athos was having trouble keeping up with Porthos’ mental swerves. "What? No. Why would I?"

"Because it must look like now I’ve found out he was white I’m not interested any more. And that’s not true, not really, it’s just – oh I don’t know."

Athos shrugged. "White culture’s three-for-two on Pinot Grigio, and you don’t have to go far to find that." He went over to the fridge and took out a bottle. "Talking of which..."

Porthos raised a smile. "I don’t much feel like celebrating right now."

"I was thinking more of drowning your sorrows." Athos poured two large glasses and looked at him. "Why don’t we take it to bed?"

"It’s only half six."

"I didn’t say we were going to sleep." Athos studied him levelly. "You look to me like a man who needs cheering up. Or at least distracting for a few hours."

\--

Lengthy distractions successfully achieved, they had a late supper and crawled back into bed, but Porthos was restless for a long time after they’d put out the light.

"You okay?" Athos murmured.

Porthos sighed. "Can’t sleep."

"If it would help, I know a man with a bottle of sleeping pills?"

"I don’t think that would be a good idea," Porthos demurred.

"At the risk of sounding like the villain in a public information film, one’s not going to hurt you."

Porthos smiled at that, rolling over and gathering Athos into his arms. "Nah. Just snuggle with me?"

"Mmn. I can do that."

"How many _does_ it take?" Porthos murmured distantly after a while. "To hurt?"

"To get hooked you mean?" Athos asked. He shrugged. "I was in the clinic for three months. The first month – I don’t remember much about it. They kept me pretty much under. After that it was like gradually coming out from a cloud, but things were blunted, for a long time. Fuzzy." He paused. "It was kind’ve nice. No pain. No worries. You didn’t care about anything."

"You sound like you almost miss it," Porthos said, with some concern.

"Sometimes." Athos smiled distantly, then shook himself. "No. It wasn’t a good time. Feeling things is better, even if sometimes they’re bad things. I prefer being able to think."

"I’m sorry."

"What for?"

"Banging on about my problems. Next to what you’ve been through they’re nothing."

"It’s not a competition. You bang on as much as you like," Athos smiled. "Let’s face it I’d rather think about your problems than mine. Mine are boring. And – I’m sorry, too."

"What for?" Porthos asked, now as confused as Athos had been.

"This is all my fault. It was my idea, and I bought you the damn test."

"Hey. It’s not, don’t be daft," Porthos insisted. "I love that you did that for me. I love _you_."

"I love you too." Athos kissed him. "Will you look for him?" he added after a second.

"Who?"

"Your father. I mean – there must be a good chance he’s still alive."

Porthos stared at him. "That genuinely hadn’t occurred to me. Oh, God."

"What? That’s good, isn’t it?"

"Is it?" Porthos countered. "He’s never looked for me before now, has he?"

"Maybe he never heard about what happened. I suppose there’s a chance he may not even know you exist," Athos said. "I mean, I don’t know how you’d even go about finding him, but it must be possible. Somebody somewhere’s going to remember them. And you are a detective..."

That finally elicited a laugh, even if it was only a small one. 

"I can hardly abuse the department resources to find my own father."

"Why not?" Athos smirked. "Just don’t tell anyone what you’re doing."

Porthos rolled over and pinned him down, tutting. "I don’t know. Bloody lawyers, always bending the law."

"We’re big on results." Athos smiled up at him, glad Porthos was looking a bit more animated. "Whatever it takes to get the job done."

\--


	3. Chapter 3

The next day was Saturday which should have meant a day off, but depending on Porthos’ caseload, weekends didn’t always happen.

"Do you need to go into work today?" Athos asked, yawning. He’d woken from an unsettling dream in which he’d been running for his life through a dark forest, but the memory was fading fast in the daylight and he shrugged it off.

"Technically I should go in, but there’s nothing I can do and they’ll let me know if there’s any developments."

"Good. We can stay in bed then," Athos announced firmly. 

Porthos cocked a speculative eyebrow. "So if I was in need of some more cheering up, say?"

Athos disappeared obligingly under the covers, and he burst out laughing.

\--

A couple of hours later they were walking into the village to fetch a morning paper when Porthos was hailed from behind.

"Hey! Inspector Porthos!"

"Oh here comes trouble," Athos smiled, looking round to see a familiar pack of local children approaching at a run.

"Alright gang?" Porthos greeted them cheerfully. "What’s it this morning then, cops and robbers?"

"We found a dead body!" Billy announced proudly, before doubling over to catch his breath.

"That’s the spirit," Porthos grinned, then caught sight of Mags’ expression.

"No – no, we really have," she said anxiously.

Porthos exchanged an alarmed look with Athos. "What? Where? No, just tell me, don’t - " he groaned as all five of them turned and ran off back the way they’d come, occasionally glancing round to make sure he was following.

The children lead them to a playground that lay at the end of a narrow turning off the main street, between the small village primary school and the edge of the forestry plantation beyond.

Porthos had been braced for the body to be that of Lucy Hambleton, but to his considerable surprise it turned out to be that of a man, sitting incongruously on one of the swings. Closer inspection revealed he’d been tied in place to one of the chains by his neck with a scarf, although judging by the amount of blood pooling on the ground below it was the stab wound in his chest that had killed him.

Conscious of the gory sight, Porthos tried to block the view with his body and turned back to the children. "Alright, I’ll take it from here. You lot go home now, you hear?" He frowned. "Nobody’s touched him, have they?"

Five heads shook vigorously.

"Billy wanted to, but we wouldn’t let him," Samir volunteered, then hastily skipped out the way of an indignant kick from Billy. 

Porthos tried not to laugh. "Well, that’s good. Off you go now."

"Is there a reward?" Billy asked hopefully.

"We’ll see." Porthos watched sternly as they reluctantly left the playground, although he had few illusions that they’d go far. 

When they’d gone, he and Athos turned back to look at the corpse of Des Hambleton.

"Well this puts a different complexion on things," said Athos. 

Porthos thrust his hands into his pockets and sighed. "There goes the weekend."

\--

Robbed of his playmate for the foreseeable future, Athos wandered up to the church for want of something to do. He walked idly along the paths and fetched up at the plaque marking the grave of Wilfred Palmer, sometime owner of Athos’ cottage and depending on your point of view, possibly still resident. 

Someone had left a bunch of snowdrops in a little vase perched on the stone, and Athos stared at them in surprise. A moment’s consideration, and it occurred to him that the vicar might know who they were from, so Athos went in search.

Although Aramis lived in the village, he covered four parish churches and wasn’t always on hand, but today Athos was in luck as investigation revealed his car parked out the front. Athos found him inside the church.

"Hello Athos. What brings you up here?"

"Well, indirectly – there’s been a murder."

"Oh no, not that poor woman?"

"No. Her husband, actually," Athos told him. "Although possibly nobody’s supposed to know that yet," he added. "I’m not sure how confidential Porthos wants to keep it." If the kids had recognised Hambleton that might yet be a vain hope, but as they hadn’t named him Athos was guessing not. They’d have been unlikely to have known him.

"I’ll keep it strictly between me and Him upstairs," promised Aramis with a smile. "Des Hambleton eh? I wonder if they’ll want to bury him here," he mused. "Neither of them were ever church-goers, as far as I know but it’s funny how many people want to be buried in the churchyard regardless. Has his wife turned up yet?"

Athos shook his head. "You knew them? Even though they weren’t members of your congregation?"

"Part of the job," Aramis said. "I try to be familiar with all my parishioners, believers or not." 

"In that case, you might be able to help me with another question. Do you know who leaves flowers on Wilfred Palmer’s grave?"

Aramis shook his head slowly, thinking. "There's an Ethel Palmer who comes to services though?" he offered. "Perhaps she's his widow?"

Athos had never considered that Wilfred might have shared the cottage with someone else, and it was a somehow surprising thought. "Do you know where she lives?"

\--

Ten minutes later he was hesitating outside a neat little bungalow on a quiet residential road not far from the church. Why was he here, he wondered. What exactly was he going to say, that wouldn’t sound mad? 

He rang the bell, and after a short delay an elderly lady opened the door.

"Can I help you?"

"Hello, I'm sorry to disturb you, my name's Athos de la Fère. I'm looking for Ethel Palmer?"

"That's me."

"This may be a strange question, but are you related to Wilfred Palmer at all? That lived at Wilfred's Cottage?"

"Oh yes, he was my brother."

"Really? You see, I'm living in the cottage now, and I suppose I was just trying to find out a bit more about him."

"You’d better come in then dear, come in," Ethel invited immediately, and Athos followed her inside. She lead him into a thickly carpeted living room where a second old lady was sitting in a large arm-chair, industriously knitting. She looked up enquiringly when Athos came in, and Ethel waved him across to the sofa.

"This is – sorry what did you say your name was?"

"Athos."

"Athos. This is Violet," Ethel said. "She’s my - "

"Companion," supplied Violet primly.

"Girlfriend," Ethel corrected, and gave Violet a smug look. "You’re allowed to say it these days you know. Sixty two years, we’ve been together," she said to Athos.

"Congratulations."

"Thank you. You said you wanted to know about my brother?"

"Yes. I’m living in his old cottage. With my, er - " he glanced at Violet. "Companion. Porthos."

Ethel snickered and Violet rolled her eyes tolerantly and went back to her knitting. Ethel promptly disappeared to make some tea, and Athos was just wondering if he should have offered to help when she reappeared with a laden tray. She brushed off his attempt to intercept with a brisk smile.

"I might be old, but I can still wrangle a tea tray. Now, would I be right in thinking it was you that changed the name of the cottage back then?"

"Yes." It had been Moonstone Cottage when Athos had moved in. 

Ethel nodded. "That was a nice thing for you to do. Wilf would've approved of that."

"Yes, I hope so," Athos agreed. The atmosphere in the place had become distinctly better after he'd done it, anyway. "It suits the place somehow."

"It was a tragedy, him going the way he did. And nobody ever wanted to stay there long afterwards," she sighed. "We'd have moved in ourselves, but the stairs were too much. At least selling it allowed us to buy this place, we'd been in council accommodation up to then." Ethel looked briefly guilty. "Is that wicked, to be grateful that we gained by his passing?"

"Not unless you killed him in the first place," Athos said without thinking, and was relieved when Ethel cackled with genuine laughter. 

"Oh you're a proper one. He'd have liked you, I think."

Ethel poured everyone tea and settled back into her own arm chair, musing on her brother. 

"He was always a good sort, if a bit of a hell-raiser at times, when he was a lad. His wife died young, and he never re-married. He was a roofer, by trade you know. Always had the best gossip in the village, did Wilf. He used to say that sat up there on someone’s roof, you saw everything that went on, and nobody ever realised you were there. Like being in your own little world, he said it was, stuck between heaven and earth."

“He must have been quite a bit older than you?” Athos guessed, trying to work out dates. Wilfred had died over twenty years ago.

“He was twenty one when I was born,” Ethel confirmed. “I’m guessing now I came as something of a surprise to my mother, but you never talked about that sort of thing back then. Babies came from the cabbage patch as far as I was concerned. They still might,” she added with a grin. “I never investigated.”

“Were there other siblings?”

“Oh yes, I was the seventh,” Ethel nodded. “The others are all gone now though. I was the youngest by ten years, and I’m eighty nine now.” 

“I wouldn’t have put you a day over sixty,” Athos murmured, and she laughed.

“Flatterer.”

Athos debated whether to ask Ethel if she ever felt Wilfred was still around, but in the end decided against it. She hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort, and he didn’t want to upset her. Conscious, also, of Violet’s close scrutiny however much she might be giving the impression she was uninterested in their conversation.

“What did you do?” Athos asked, realising that if Ethel had never married she must have made a living for herself. “As a career, I mean.”

“Civil service,” said Ethel. “Man and boy, as the saying goes. I learned to type at sixteen, and never looked back. It’s where I met Violet.”

Athos wondered what she’d worked as, ‘civil service’ covering a multitude of options, some more intriguing than others. But Ethel didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t pry. 

“Well I won’t keep you,” he said, setting down his cup. “Thank you for the tea, and for speaking to me. It was nice to meet you.”

Ethel showed him out, and watched him walk away down the road from behind the net curtain.

“Have you been bothering that young man?” she murmured.

Violet looked up from her knitting. “I barely spoke to him?”

Ethel smiled. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

\--

After a gruelling day involving coroners, paperwork, autopsies, paperwork, press briefings, more paperwork, and finally the painstaking re-examination of every assumption they’d made concerning Lucy’s disappearance, Porthos finally made it home that evening only to promptly start work again, going over the notes and transcripts of interviews with Lucy's friends and family members that he hadn't personally sat in on.

After a while Athos came and perched on the arm of his chair. "Shall I put some supper on?" he offered.

"Uh, yeah, that'd be nice?" Porthos looked up at him, blinking a little to clear his mind of names and dates and possibilities, and refocus on domestic matters. And then remembered something. 

"Oh, shit. It was my turn to cook, wasn't it?" He started to get up, and Athos pushed him back down.

"Don't be daft. You're busy. I can throw something together."

"Sorry." Porthos winced, and Athos ruffled his hair affectionately. 

"Trust me, I know what it’s like. You okay?" 

"Got a lot on my mind right now," Porthos admitted with a sigh.

"Have you thought any more about looking for your father?"

Porthos shook his head. "No. I can't afford to be distracted right now, my attention needs to be on this case. Maybe afterwards. It's waited this long, it can wait a bit longer." He met Athos’ gaze with a hint of defiance, expecting him to argue, but to his relief Athos let the matter drop. 

“Any luck with the case?” Athos asked instead.

“More at sea than ever,” Porthos admitted. “Now we don’t know if Lucy was only taken to get at Hambleton, or if someone did him in because they found out what he did to her, or if someone was targeting both of them for a reason we don’t know. We’ve been concentrating on her relationships, now this has blown it wide open and we’ve got to look at everyone he was dealing with as well.” 

Porthos rubbed his eyes tiredly. “He was stabbed, once, in the chest, with no signs of a struggle, which suggests he trusted his attacker enough to let them get close, and wasn’t expecting it. But I have no idea what he was doing in a fucking playground, in the middle of the night judging by time of death.”

“He must have been meeting someone. Maybe someone told him they knew what had happened to Lucy? Maybe even told him she’d be there?”

“It’s a possibility. But right now we have no way of finding out,” Porthos sighed. “Anyway, enough about death and destruction, how are you doing?”

“Oh, alright,” Athos said vaguely. “I met Wilfred’s sister today,” he said, hoping to divert the conversation from any dissection of his current mental or physical well-being. 

“As in this cottage Wilfred?” Porthos asked, surprised.

“How many other Wilfreds do you know?”

“Six,” Porthos declared with a straight face, then laughed when Athos slapped at him.

Having related his encounter with Ethel and Violet, Athos left Porthos to his notes and went out to the kitchen. He was conflicted. Part of him realised he was spiralling far too easily back into bad habits as far as reliance on the sedatives went, and that he should talk to Porthos about it. At the same time he didn't want to add to the man's problems, conscious that Porthos was dealing with both a stressful time at work and a significant shock to his sense of personal identity. 

He'd just have to try and cut down again on his own.

\--

On Sunday morning d’Artagnan hauled the crate of logged evidence into the office, and started unpacking it for examination. It included the clothes Hambleton had been wearing, dried blood and all, and he was heartily glad they were all sealed in evidence bags.

He was conscious of Marcheaux at his shoulder, and tried not to take any notice of him. He personally thought Porthos should have suspended the man, but Porthos had for now given him the benefit of the doubt, accepting the plea that if and when turned out he was innocent, a suspension would remain as a black mark on his record. 

Porthos had also decided it wouldn’t hurt to keep Marcheaux where he could see him, but as he hadn’t shared that bit of information d’Artagnan maintained the stiff and silent treatment.

"Hey, wait. Where did you get this?" Marcheaux had picked up one of the evidence bags and was staring at it as if it contained a snake rather than a scarf.

"Hambleton was wearing it. Well, sort of. It was tying him to the swing." D’Artagnan bit his words off, irritated that he’d accidentally spoken to the man. 

"It’s not his."

"How do you know?" Porthos had come silently up behind them, and Marcheaux jumped. He looked deeply unhappy about something, and his next words revealed why.

"Because it’s mine."

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Marcheaux belatedly realised what that implied, and back-pedalled. “Well, kind’ve. I’ve got one like it, that I’ve not seen for a while. I’m not saying it’s unique or anything.”

“You’re claiming you just ‘lost’ it?” d’Artagnan asked scathingly. “How convenient.”

“What, you think if I’d done him in I’d’ve just left it at the scene and then identified it afterwards for the laughs?” Marcheaux demanded. “It’s not like he was throttled with it, the man was stabbed. The only possible reason there could be for this being there, is because someone wants to point the finger at me. Somebody who must know I was questioned about Lucy. Somebody who doesn’t like me.”

“That could be a long list,” d’Artagnan retorted, then noticed the way Marcheaux was looking at him. “Are you accusing me of planting it?” he cried.

“Did you?”

“Shut up, both of you,” Porthos ordered. “Of course he didn’t bloody plant it. But also, I accept that even you probably wouldn’t be stupid enough to incriminate yourself like this. Where did you last have it?”

“How should I know? It disappeared before Christmas. It might have walked from the office,” he added, glaring at d’Artagnan.

“Anywhere else?”

Marcheaux considered. “It’s possible I might have left it behind one time,” he admitted grudgingly.

“With Lucy?” Porthos clarified.

“Yeah. Maybe she gave it to her husband, I dunno. Maybe he wanted to know whose it was, and she had to say it was for him. Maybe he was wearing it when he was stabbed.”

“That’s a lot of maybes,” Porthos said dubiously.

“Alright, here’s another maybe for you. What about the woman you said was cleaning for them? She might have found it, after we’d gone. Maybe she hung onto it. Didn’t she say – hang on a sec – ” Marcheaux turned away to his computer and pulled up the notes Porthos had filed based on Athos’ conversation with Gerry. “Yeah, ‘ghastly man’, she called him, according to you,” Marcheaux said triumphantly. “Maybe she had her own reasons for doing him in. Decided I’d make a suitable scapegoat.” He frowned. “Come to that, who bloody identified me in the first place? You never said. I’d be taking a long hard look at them and all if I were you.”

Porthos said nothing, but as he walked back to his office he was troubled. It had been Ninon de Larroque who’d first pointed the finger at Marcheaux as one of Lucy’s clients – the only one, in fact, that she’d admitted to knowing. The flat where business had taken place was Ninon’s – she could easily have found the scarf and known whose it was. 

He realised with a twinge of professional guilt that he’d mentally discounted Ninon as a suspect entirely because she was Athos’ client. No, not entirely, she’d volunteered the facts of her and Lucy’s employment when she didn’t have to, that must count in her favour. Unless, of course, she’d realised it might inevitably come out anyway during the course of the investigation. She couldn’t have known that Marcheaux wouldn’t speak out for a start, might even have assumed he already had. 

Had Ninon and Lucy fallen out over something connected with the business, leading to Lucy’s death? Had Des found out and confronted her, leading to his own? Or was it the other way round, had Ninon discovered Des had done away with Lucy, and killed him in revenge? 

Porthos groaned. The only thing he knew right now was that he needed to interview Ninon again, and probably Gerry too. Which was not going to make him popular with Athos. He briefly considered leaving the interviews to d’Artagnan, then decided that was cowardly. He and Athos were both professionals. They had to prove they could make this work. 

\--

With Porthos having gone into the station, Athos had Sunday to himself and found himself dwelling on the facts of the case. Technically his only involvement was to represent Ninon and the others, but he also knew the best way of protecting them was to prove someone else guilty.

The sound of church bells signalling the end of the Sunday morning service gave him an idea. He needed a Wilfred's-eye view of things, and the church offered the only opportunity he could think of.

Aramis was just getting into his car as Athos arrived, one sermon over and off to St Margaret’s for the second.

"Oh are you leaving already? I was hoping to take a look up the tower," Athos said. “If it’s allowed?”

Aramis considered him for a moment then dug out a bunch of keys and pried one off the ring. "Here. Just lock up when you go, yeah?"

"Will do. Thank you."

Athos let himself in through the door at the base of the tower, then locked it behind him so no one else could wander in. There was a second locked door leading into the nave of the church, and a wooden staircase leading up past the bell ropes. He climbed this to the first platform level where it became a spiral stair set into the thickness of a column. 

The second set of steps were steep and claustrophobic with only a rope to hang onto in lieu of a banister, but Athos hauled himself up with determination.

The only noise apart from the scuff of his feet and his laboured breathing was a heavy, reverberating tick, as if the universe itself was biting tiny, inexorable measurements from his life.

Eventually he climbed out into a chamber that held the clock mechanism, the heavy iron machinery coiling and ratcheting in its case like some ancient torture device. He hurried past it to another staircase, and ascended another level to where the bells hung, silent now and radiating their own strange presence. 

A final staircase lead Athos up to a bolted wooden door. He opened it and stepped out at last onto the roof of the tower, gasping for breath after his rapid and rather creepy climb.

A pitched roof rose to a point in the centre, with a weathervane gleaming in the sun. Up close, Athos realised what he'd always taken for a traditional cockerel was actually a beautifully wrought dragon, and it took him a second to make the connection – the church was dedicated to St George.

A slatted wooden walkway was suspended over a lead gutter that circled the top of the tower, protected by a crenelated wall. Athos looked out and down, and saw the whole village spread out before him like a map.

It was dizzying and he grasped the edge of the parapet, the feel of the rough stone under his fingers helping to steady him.

He looked again. He could see his house, and moving round to the right could see Ethel's bungalow. Athos waved, just on the off chance she was looking up. From this angle he could work out where Lucy's house was, hidden by trees, and traced the route she'd most likely have taken into the village.

He completed a circuit of the tower and came back to his starting point, looking down over the main part of the village. He picked out the playground where Hambleton's body had been found, a pale green square before the dark mass of the forestry. 

The plantation had a presence all of its own rather like the bells, its dark green mass smothering the hill, contrasting sharply with the winter brown of the deciduous woodland behind him to the east.

There were lines through it that looked as though they’d been sliced with a knife, tracks made by and for the logging vehicles. Looking down again at the playground, Athos made out another such line running straight up from the boundary fence. He didn't remember seeing a path from ground level, but that was definitely what it looked like from above. Not as wide as the other tracks, but a noticeable cleft between the orderly ranks of trees, perhaps a stage gap between phases of planting, or where a single line of trees had been taken out.

No one had seen anyone else enter or leave the playground on the night Des Hambleton had died. Athos wondered now if his attacker could have disappeared into the forestry plantation.

A cold wind was blowing up the valley, and Athos shivered as the sun disappeared behind a cloud. The scudding pattern of clouds on the ground below made him feel abruptly dizzy again and he groped his way back to the door, climbing through it with a sense of sanctuary gained. Like a mouse into its hole with a hawk circling outside, he thought. 

Telling himself not to be fanciful, Athos made a careful descent, aware that one false step could easily result in a broken leg or worse. Looking away from the yawning hole where the bell ropes disappeared to the stone floor far below, he made it safely to the ground and let himself out of the church, locking up carefully behind him. 

Athos made his way down through the village to the playground. It was still cordoned off, but he squeezed through a gap between the fence and a garden wall to the right and found a narrow path that lead up to the edge of the forestry. It was muddy and he briefly wished he'd gone home for some walking boots, but by sticking to the larger clumps of grass and a certain amount of judicious leaping across the stickier looking parts, he eventually reached the treeline.

Here too there was a rough path leading along the edge of the forest, that Athos realised must be the one that eventually ran along behind his own house. He wasn't intending to go that far though, and by turning backwards and forwards tried to line up the distant church tower with the gap he'd seen through the trees.

The tall pines offered no obvious break in their ranks, but a short way along Athos discovered a broken down section of the playground fence. This, he suspected, would be used by the local children as a short-cut into the plantation, in which case the footpath should be close at hand.

He pushed between the nearest trees, pine needles prickling at his hands and catching in his hair. It was dark and disorienting even just a few steps in, but he pressed on and shortly emerged onto an overgrown track. 

Athos started walking along it. He stumbled occasionally on the uneven ground and frequently had to unhook himself from clutching brambles, but over-all the going wasn't too bad. The air smelt heavily of Christmas trees, and he was almost starting to enjoy himself. 

After a few minutes of steady walking, he caught a flash of red amidst the muted greens and browns of the winter forest. It was at the side of the track, half-hidden beneath brambles and dead ferns, and too garishly bright to be natural. 

Athos approached cautiously, wondering for a sick moment if he'd found the body of Lucy Hambleton. To his relief it proved to be only a coat, bundled up and half-buried in a ditch. It had clearly been deliberately hidden, if not very well, and he wondered if whoever had left it here had done it at night, thinking it more completely obscured.

It was made of red wool, with a hood. Almost certainly Lucy's, and as he hooked it carefully out of the undergrowth, Athos realised the dark stains on the front were not water but blood.

Athos hastily dropped it back were he’d found it and groped for his phone. There was no signal, and he groaned. What to do – leave the coat here unattended, or risk further disturbing the site where he'd found it? There was nothing to particularly distinguish this spot from any other, and Athos suspected if he took the coat away with him he couldn’t guarantee he’d ever be able to relocate the precise spot it had come from.

He took a couple of pictures of it, under the irrational feeling that as soon as he walked away it would somehow disappear – or be taken by whoever had dumped it.

The thought that he might be being watched was an uncomfortable one, and Athos started making his way back along the track.

It no longer felt appealing to be out here. The trees loomed darkly over the path, and there were sinister rustlings off to the side. He told himself it could only be birds or squirrels but found himself wanting to run. His imagination insisted there was a shadow keeping pace with him just inside the trees, and he was reminded horribly of the unsettling dreams he’d been having.

By the time he forced his way out between the last line of trees into the open air Athos was breathless and tight-chested. To his relief he now had a phone signal again, but his hands were shaking so much he had to take a tranquilliser before he could make the call to Porthos.

He walked tiredly back to the road and waited for the police to arrive. 

\--


	4. Chapter 4

On Monday morning Athos' first task of the day was to go back to Crossley to sit in on the interview with Ninon. Porthos had left too early for Athos to reasonably grab a lift with him, and Ninon had been staying in town with a friend, so didn’t need picking up. 

He considered taking the bus, but the rural routes were so infrequent that he worked out it would take him the whole morning to get there and back. Taking the car again was the only sensible option, and if driving alone still gave him qualms then it was just one more thing he was going to have to conquer if he was serious about going back to work full time. He was at least familiar with the route, but part of it formed the only main road into Crossley from the south and large goods vehicles tended to barrel along it way above the speed limit, making it an unsettling experience.

Determined to at least try and make it without chemical assistance this time, Athos started out with good intentions but by the time he reached Crossley police station, he was in a cold sweat and having difficulty catching his breath. Hunched over the steering wheel in the car park and despising himself for being so irrationally incapable of doing something he'd previously never given a second thought to, he'd swallowed down a tablet before realising what he was doing. 

“Shit.” Athos closed his eyes, mentally berating himself. He should have split it like before, it was a stupid mistake given that he still had to drive home again. 

Hoping that the need to stay alert during the ensuing interview would counter any drowsy effects, and trusting to the knowledge that more often than not he needed at least two to knock him right out, Athos pulled himself together and went inside.

Ninon was waiting for him in reception, looking poised but nervous.

"What's this all about?" she asked, voice low and interrogative.

"I don't know." Athos shook his head. "They apparently have more questions for you."

"Oh come on, you expect me to believe you don’t know?" Ninon insisted. "You must do."

Athos gave her a rather cold look. "There are things Porthos feels able to share with me. There are other things he obviously can't, and I would never ask him to. I will represent you to the best of my ability, but if you only hired me because you think I have inside information, then I'm afraid you've come to the wrong person."

"No - no, of course not," Ninon said, flustered. "I'm just worried, that's all. Why do they suddenly want to see me again?"

"I don't know, but if you've done nothing wrong, then you have nothing to worry about."

"You really trust the police that much?" she asked scornfully. 

"Bits of it." Athos smiled. "Honestly, I don't see that you have to worry unduly. I can make a very good case for the fact that you've neither solicited nor pimped, and selling your own services in private premises isn't technically illegal. Arguably you were all self-employed. If they really wanted to make difficulties for you, the only thing you might have to be wary of is a charge of tax evasion, or money laundering if you put any of the cash through the shop, but I really don't see them bothering. This is a murder enquiry now, they haven't got time to waste on trying to build vice charges."

"I hope you're right."

\--

They were shown into an interview room and shortly joined by Porthos and d'Artagnan.

"May I ask what this is about?" Athos asked as soon as the preliminaries were out of the way. "My client has co-operated fully with the investigation to date, including volunteering information that many other people might have seen fit to conceal."

"As I'm sure you're aware Mr la Fère, this is a murder investigation now," Porthos said heavily. "We need to take another look at all the evidence, and Ms Larroque is not the only person we'll be re-interviewing in a more formal setting. Or Ms Webb, should I say?"

Ninon looked startled, and Athos experienced a brief moment of confused guilt as he realised that he'd known Ninon had actually been born Jane Webb, and should probably have told Porthos as much – except that would then have posed a conflict to his own client. As it was, the matter appeared to have been resolved without his input, although he couldn't help wondering whether Porthos had known this at the weekend.

"There's no law against changing your name, Inspector," Ninon said frostily. 

"No. But you might have mentioned it. As you might have mentioned the fact you were arrested ten years ago in connection with a series of acts of vandalism against military establishments."

Ninon folded her arms. "I was part of a women's protest group. We were _anti_ -violence, Inspector, that was kind've the entire point. Or do you consider that the mere existence of a criminal record makes it more likely that I am now a murderer, regardless of the facts? That's the kind of slapdash thinking I should expect from the establishment."

Athos closed his eyes and wished he'd accepted the initial offer of coffee. This was going to be a long morning.

\--

In the end the interview lasted just under two hours, but felt much longer. They walked out to the car park together, and paused by Athos' car. 

"Well. That was fairly horrible," Ninon said. "Are they trying to pin this on me, do you think?"

"No, I don’t." Athos hadn't especially enjoyed the preceding two hours, but he was a lot less worried now than he had been going in. Whilst logically he knew this new sense of calm was entirely due to the pill he'd taken, the accompanying sense of well-being meant that his earlier panicked worry of the drive over now seemed hugely exaggerated.

"The questions they asked about Lucy to begin with were on a completely different tack to the ones they ended up asking about Desmond,” Athos told her. “They were reaching. Poking at things to see if anything shook loose. I'd say as of right now they don't have a clue what happened to either of them, or they wouldn't be wasting time on you."

"Well. That's comforting at least." Ninon looked awkward. "I owe you an apology. For what I said before. I do appreciate you taking this case."

Athos smiled. "Don't worry about it. I've had clients say much worse." He paused, casting about for something else to say. “Will you cope alright? Money-wise, I mean, if it’s just the shop now?”

Ninon sighed. “I’ll probably sell the cottage. If I move back into the flat, the capital will keep me afloat for a while.”

“Why don’t you rent it out? The flat I mean? Then at least you’d have a bit more regular income?”

“That’s not a bad idea. I might think about that. Thank you.” 

To his surprise, Ninon suddenly hugged him. Before Athos could quite decide what to do with his arms, she'd let go again and stepped away. 

"Let me know if there are any developments?" she requested, then turned and walked briskly off towards the road.

Athos drove back to Owlbrook hardly sparing it a thought. It was only having arrived he looked up and realised that rather than parking in his own drive as he'd fully intended, he'd somehow ended up parking – perfectly carefully and neatly – in one of the public spaces in the centre of the village, having had it in mind that he was heading for the office. 

With a sense of cold creeping guilt Athos realised he had no memory whatsoever of the last few miles of the journey. Presumably it had been an uneventful few minutes, but the fact he'd clearly been operating so deeply on autopilot to have no recollection frightened him to his core, knowing he could so easily have caused all manner of horrific accidents.

Hands shaking, he got out of the car and locked it, walking the handful of paces across to the estate agent.

The elderly Mr Langton looked up from the desk on the right, but Athos caught Sylvie's eye hopefully. "You got a sec?"

When it became apparent he didn't want to say anything in front of Langton, she came out onto the pavement.

"Athos, are you alright? You look dreadful."

"Sylvie would you do me a favour? Without asking any questions?"

"Depends what it is."

"Take my car keys. And don't give them back to me."

She cast a look over to where his car was parked, and back at him. "Have you been drinking?"

"No! No."

"Then what - " she caught his expression and checked herself. "Right. No questions." Sylvie held out her hand and he passed her the keys.

"Want me to drop it back up to your place later?" she offered. 

"Would you mind?" Athos thought with relief that at least now he wouldn’t have to explain to Porthos where it was.

"No problem. I'll drive it up when I finish here, if that's okay."

"Thank you. I – thank you." Athos gave her a look of tired gratitude, and she shook her head.

"Are you sure you're okay? Is there anything I can do?"

"No. Thank you. It's something I need to sort out for myself, I just – yeah. Don't let me have them back for a while? Thanks."

"How will I know when it's okay to hand them over?"

Athos gave her a troubled smile. "When I'm willing to tell you why."

“You owe me lunch for this,” Sylvie warned him.

“Gotcha.” 

"Excuse me Mister?"

Athos looked round to find five wary faces of varying cleanliness looking up at him.

"Hello."

"You’re like a policeman, right?" asked Billy. 

"I’m a solicitor." 

"Never mind. Samir’s mum thinks you’re okay."

Athos stifled a laugh. "I’m glad. Can I help you?" 

There was a certain amount of shuffling and muttering, ending when Dan elbowed Billy sharply in the ribs.

"Ow, fuc- " Billy broke off and coughed, remembering his audience. "Um. I found something. And _they_ reckon I should tell the police. But I guess you’ll do."

"What did you find?" Athos asked patiently, experiencing a brief moment of worry that it might be another body.

More fidgeting, until Billy pulled a grubby bank note from his pocket and handed it over with visible reluctance. Athos took it carefully by the edges and saw with some considerable surprise that it was a fifty pound note. 

"Where did you say you found this?" he asked faintly. 

"In the tyres," Billy said cryptically. "On the playground. Before we found the dead bloke. Well, before we realised he was dead, anyway. We thought he was just drunk at first. Or a perve."

"What tyres?" Athos asked, trying to picture the place, but Billy was preoccupied with another matter.

"Do you reckon I’ll get it back? If no-one claims it like?"

"It’s possible," Athos said. "Although it would probably be given to your parents to look after for you, in that event." 

"Oh. Never see that again then, will I?" Billy sighed.

"I’m sure they’d keep it safe for you."

"No." To Athos’ surprise, this was from Mags. "You give it to his parents, his father’ll just drink it." This was met by a certain gloomy nodding from the others, and Athos felt a pang of pity that they should all accept this with such bleak familiarity. 

Seemingly already resigned to its loss and with it any interest he had in the matter, Billy turned away and the others followed, running off down the street. Athos stared after them, still holding the note.

"You can’t save all of them," Sylvie said softly, and Athos sighed. 

"You just never know, do you," he said. "What goes on behind closed doors. What secrets people are keeping. What demons they’re fighting."

"What high-value currency they’re leaving strewn in their wake," Sylvie added, pulling him back to the here-and-now.

He looked down at the note. "I’d better call Porthos."

\--

While he was waiting for the police, Athos walked down to the playground to suss out what Billy might have meant by tyres. The place was still taped off, but the scene of crime officers had long gone. 

On the opposite side of the park from the swings was an old telegraph pole, firmly embedded in the ground and with a series of silver-painted tyres fixed to it all the way up, like some kind of surreal giant’s hoopla set. It was for climbing, although as the tyre rims regularly filled with rainwater, the odds of an unexpected drenching were always against you.

Athos ducked under the tape and wandered over to inspect it. The grass at the bottom had been worn away by countless feet, but there were no tell-tale adult footprints preserved in the cracked mud. Had Hambleton lost the money here? It was hard to believe it had come from anyone else. 

Athos glanced around. The only windows that looked out on the playground were those at the back of the primary school, and after hours that would have been deserted. It was a lonely spot. A good place for a ransom drop-off, for instance.

Was that what it had been, a pay-off gone wrong? Des Hambleton had said nothing of any ransom demands to the police, but then he might not have, if those had been his instructions. But why had he been killed, if he’d done as he was told? And more to the point, if it was a question of kidnapping after all, did that mean that Lucy was still alive?

Athos shivered. The edge of the forestry plantation was pressed darkly up against the fence on the far side of the playground, as if it was trying to break its unnaturally orderly ranks. Silent pines, awaiting their ultimate fate as flat-pack furniture and roof timbers. Athos caught himself wondering if they resented it, and then was glad no one could read his mind. 

It felt uncomfortably like he was being watched again, and as his level of nerves became steadily unbearable, for the second time in two days Athos went to wait in the road for the police. 

And if he swallowed another half a tablet to calm himself down while he was waiting, that was his business.

\--

"Well, we’ve confirmed it, the money almost certainly came from Hambleton," Porthos told him that night. "He withdrew a hundred thousand from his business account two days ago. If the stupid bastard had only told us, he’d still be alive."

"Lucy might not though. _Do_ you think it was a ransom pay-off gone wrong?" Athos asked. "That he hung around to see who collected, and got caught?"

"It’s a theory," Porthos agreed. "And it fits with the way he went from being worried about her to suddenly trying to put us off, if he’d heard from a kidnapper in the meantime. But he didn’t strike me as the type of man to take unnecessary risks. I don’t see him confronting anyone, do you?"

"I never spoke to the man, but no. He didn’t look the hands-on type." 

"And then there’s the scarf."

"What scarf?"

Porthos hesitated. "I shouldn’t tell you this."

"Then don’t."

"I want to. You’re out of it, more objective. I want an outside opinion."

"Alright, on what?"

"It was Marcheaux’s. The scarf that was used to tie Des Hambleton to the swing."

"I assume he hasn’t conveniently confessed to a double murder?" Athos asked, with a glimmer of a smile.

Porthos snorted. "Says he lost it. Doesn’t remember where he last had it."

"How do you know it’s his? He doesn’t strike me as the type to sew in name tags."

"He identified it."

Athos frowned. "Did he know at the time what it had been used for?"

"Yeah."

"Then that surely speaks in his favour. Presumably if he hadn’t, you’d just have assumed it belonged to the deceased."

"He used to wear it to work. He might have been worried someone else would recognise it."

"Then why leave it at the scene of a crime in the first place?" 

"I know, I know," Porthos sighed. "None of it makes sense."

"You think he’s being framed?"

"He does." Porthos shrugged. "He can’t come up with a plausible reason or suspect though. Plenty of people’d be happy to stiff him, but setting him up for murder seems a bit much. It _could_ all be an elaborate double-bluff on his part, but frankly I don’t see him crediting us with enough intelligence to see past the most obvious answer. He surely wouldn’t risk going to prison because he’d made it look _too_ much like he did it."

Porthos shook his head. “Anyway. Enough about work. How are _you_ doing?” He gave Athos a look of sympathetic concern. “You didn’t eat much supper.”

“I’m not really hungry.”

“You look tired. I guess at least being back at work’s good from that point of view, eh? Wear you out a bit I mean, help you sleep?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess.” Athos gave him a tight smile, knowing that his constant yawning and slightly spaced-out answers had nothing to do with how hard he’d been working. “What about you?” he asked, hoping to divert the conversation. “Thought any more about looking for your father?”

Porthos’ expression immediately shut down and Athos felt guilty for the success of his tactic.

“No,” said Porthos shortly. “I told you, haven’t got time to think about it right now.”

“Forgive me, but as something of an expert in the field of making excuses, I know one when I see it, and that’s bollocks.”

Porthos sighed unhappily, and Athos came over to sit next to him, taking his hand.

“You ever get a bad feeling about something?” Porthos asked. “I’m just afraid what I’m going to find, you know?”

Athos nodded. “Well, nobody’s saying you have to look for him. I’m sorry, I’ll shut up about it.”

“No, you’re alright.” Porthos put an arm around him and smiled when Athos turned it into a hug. “Look, why don’t we go to bed, eh?”

“Sounds good to me.”

\--

That night, despite falling asleep quickly Athos was plagued with restless dreams. The dark, lowering forest was an oppressive presence in all of them. In some he was running for his life, chased by some nameless, shapeless beast, and in others it was him doing the chasing – running endlessly after a barely-glimpsed figure in a red coat, dodging away from him through the trees. 

After what felt like a lifetime of running, he finally caught up with them, grabbing the figure by the shoulder and spinning it round. But the coat and hood collapsed under his hands, with nothing inside but a storm of banknotes that exploded out into his face like birds.

\--

“I’ve got a canine officer coming down today,” Porthos told Athos over breakfast the next morning. 

“Is his bark worse than his bite?” Athos enquired, and Porthos grinned.

“He’s a dog handler you twat, not a werewolf. We’re going to walk the path where you found that coat, see if we can pick up a scent.” 

“See, this is where werewolf officers would come in handy,” Athos said. “They could tell you what they were tracking.”

Porthos shook his head, picking up his coat and kissing Athos goodbye. “I’m never entirely sure when you’re not joking,” he complained. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Athos called after him. 

Once the front door had closed and Athos had listened to Porthos drive away, his smile gradually faded as he contemplated the bottle of pills he’d taken from his pocket. He kept trying not to take any at all, but the successive developments of the case on top of the pressures of just functioning like a normal human being continually scuppered his good intentions. 

He broke one in half with a kitchen knife, but before he could take it the doorbell rang. He quickly brushed one piece back in the bottle and swallowed the other as he went to see who it was. 

To his surprise it was Mags Atkins on the doorstep, for once minus her four accomplices.

"Is Inspector Porthos in?" she asked shyly.

"No, I’m afraid he’s at work."

Mags looked disappointed. "I thought he might be here."

"I can probably get a message to him, if you need me to?"

"I don’t want to get anyone into trouble," Mags said, shuffling her feet as if she was having second thoughts about coming here.

"Do you know something Porthos needs to hear?" 

Mags nodded cautiously. 

"Why don’t you come in, and tell me all about it?"

Mags hesitated, looking warier than ever, and Athos realised her dilemma. She was alone, and barely knew him.

"Or we can stay out here if you’d prefer? That’s fine." He led her to the stone bench in front of the living room window, where they were mostly screened from the road by the garden wall and his car that had reappeared courtesy of Sylvie at some point the previous afternoon.

"Thanks. Sorry."

"Don’t be. It’s always better to be safe," Athos reassured her. “So what’s up?”

"It’s about Lucy. The lady who’s missing? See, I used to like going to the witchy shop. Except one day my mum told me not to hang around there any more," Mags explained.

"So, obviously, you did?" Athos guessed.

Mags shrugged. "We all did. We wanted to know what the big secret was. I mean, we figured it out soon enough. All those men sneaking up the alley, and the ladies in their nice clothes. Nobody ever notices us, not properly. We kind’ve lost interest once we knew," she added dismissively, with a child’s utter disinterest in matters of sex. "But I heard you talking to my mum the other day. You wanted to know who else Lucy was meeting."

"You saw someone?"

"I don’t want to get anyone into trouble," she said again, sounding conflicted.

"You might be saving a life," Athos said gently. 

Mags sighed. "It was Sam."

"Sam Dinsdale?" Athos had met him briefly the month before, he was a neighbour of Mags and Gerry. Lived with his bedridden father, and Athos could easily see how he might have ended up needing the services of someone like Lucy.

"He’d never hurt anyone," Mags insisted. "He’s nice."

"He might be able to help us though. You never know when someone might have a key piece of information, even if they don’t know it. Look, shall I talk to him? It might be more discreet than the police going round."

"Would you?" Mags looked relieved. "You won’t tell him, will you? That it was me that told you, I mean?"

"No. Of course not,” Athos promised. “He’ll never know.”

\--

Porthos parked in the village centre and walked down towards the playground. A man in uniform and hi-vis police jacket was waiting for him at the gate with a springer spaniel on a lead.

“Sanjit Chakrabarti? Inspector Porthos du Vallon.” Porthos shook his hand and reflected that for once his luck seemed to be holding. It was a lovely sunny morning for a walk in the woods and Sanjit was, not to put too fine a point on it, fucking hot.

“Pleased to meet you. This is Pepper.” 

Porthos bent to pat the dog, who danced around his ankles excitedly. Sanjit laughed. “She’s keen. Mostly she gets dragged round warehouses and baggage halls. This makes a nice change.” He looked Porthos speculatively up and down. “For me and all,” he added.

Porthos lead the way round the perimeter of the playground and into the trees, and they made their way unhurriedly up the track to where the coat had been found. Porthos knew that worse case they were looking for a body, but Sanjit was good company, and he couldn’t help enjoying the walk. 

The evidence site was marked, and Porthos had brought the coat with him. He took it out of the bag now, and let Pepper have a good sniff. After a moment investigating the surrounding ground she started off eagerly on a scent – back the way they’d come.

“Hey! Hey, no, wrong way,” Sanjit laughed, reeling her back in. “We know where they came from. We want to know where they went.”

Pepper seemed to get the idea, and after casting around a bit more, barked once and started off again, this time up the track.

“She’s got something,” said Sanjit.

“Sure it’s not just a rabbit?” Porthos grinned.

“No!” Sanjit said indignantly, then laughed. “She’s a good girl. She knows her job. And more to the point, she knows if she gets a result she’ll get a treat.”

“Oh, I’m guessing she’ll get a treat either way?” 

Sanjit put his finger to his lips. “Shhh! Don’t tell her.”

\--

The CID suite was almost deserted when Elodie hurried in, and she realised with a sinking heart the only officer in residence was Marcheaux.

"Where’s DS D’Artagnan?"

"Day off," said Marcheaux tersely. "In lieu of working Sunday. Gone up to London to see his bit of stuff. So if you want something, you’ll have to make do with me."

Elodie hesitated, then sighed. "Forensics came back on Lucy’s coat."

Marcheaux looked away. "And?" he muttered.

"It’s not her blood. It’s her husband’s." 

"You what?" Marcheaux looked back round so fast he cricked his neck. "Ow."

"It’s not her blood. Which means - "

"It means she was there when he was killed," said Marcheaux slowly. 

"Or that she killed him. We didn’t think he was the type to approach a kidnapper, but what if he saw his _wife_ collecting the money?"

They stared at each other. "Call du Vallon," Marcheaux snapped. "He’s gone looking. If she’s killed once..." 

Elodie was already dialling, but it went straight to answerphone. She left a hasty message, and hung up. 

"So now what?"

\-- 

Athos was relieved to find Sam Dinsdale at home and was invited in quite cordially, having helped out with his lease the previous month. 

"So, what can I do for you?" Sam asked, leading Athos into the kitchen where he was cleaning a pair of mud-encrusted work boots.

"It's quite a delicate matter,” said Athos carefully. “Were you seeing Lucy Hambleton?"

"What do you mean seeing?" Sam asked, looking uncomfortable. "She wasn't my girlfriend, if that's what you're asking?"

"It isn't. I know what she did for a living, Sam." 

Sam put his head in his hands. "Oh God. Yes, it's true. What with my hours all over the place, and dad to look after, I've never had a hope of finding time for a relationship. Lucy was – just what I needed, I suppose."

"I'm not here to judge you. Or her. I'm trying to find out what's happened to her, that's all." 

"But I swear I don't know anything," Sam said desperately. "If I did I'd've come forward, I promise. But there was nothing I could tell anyone. Oh God, if my father finds out he'll be so disappointed in me."

"There's no reason he should," Athos reassured him. "Is there anything, anything at all you can tell us that you think might help? You'd meet her at the flat?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes we'd go to a place I knew in the woods. She liked to - " Sam broke off, flushing. "She liked to do it outside, see. Under the trees." 

"Can you tell me where this was?" Athos asked urgently, thinking this was the first location that she'd been linked with that nobody had yet explored. 

"It's right in the oldest part of the plantation," Sam said. "I think it used to be a birdwatching hide or something, but nobody's used it for years. I came across it a while ago on a timber survey. It's way off the main tracks, but there's an overgrown path, if you know where to look."

"Can you show me on a map?"

Sam pulled out a chart of the plantation and considered it. "Here," he said, marking a spot in pencil, then working out the co-ordinates and noting them down too. 

Athos took out his phone and tried to call Porthos, but it went straight to voicemail.

"If he's out in the woods you'll not get through," Sam said. "I don't know why, but somehow the forestry seems to block the signal. No logical reason for it, but once you're up in the trees it's like it just absorbs it.” He shook his head discouragingly. “It's a dead zone."

\--

The phone rang in Porthos’ empty office, and Elodie picked up from her extension.

“Crossley CID.”

“It’s Athos. Is Porthos there?”

“No, he’s over in Owlbrook somewhere. Actually, I’d been hoping he was with you.” 

“Me? Why?”

“Because we just discovered something he needs to know, and he’s not picking up.”

“If he’s out in the forestry he’s probably got no signal,” Athos reported. “What is it?”

Elodie made a face. Technically she shouldn’t be sharing confidential information. She put her hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Marcheaux. “It’s Athos. Should I say anything?”

Marcheaux shrugged. “Fuck it. Tell him.”

“We got the report back on Lucy’s coat,” Elodie told him. “The bloodstains aren’t hers, they’re her husband’s. We think she might have killed him.”

“Oh, shit. I think I know where she might be. And where Porthos might be heading.” Athos told her about the hut and gave her the co-ordinates Sam had scribbled on the edge of the map.

“Thanks. We’ll get officers up there. You stay put,” Elodie added. “This woman could be dangerous.”

“Yeah, sure. Got it.” Athos hung up and immediately looked at Sam. “Can you show me where this is?”

Sam looked at the clock and winced. “Sorry, I’ve got the District Nurse coming for dad in a minute I’ll need to be here to let her in.”

“No problem.” Athos picked up the map. “I’ll find it.”

“Here, take this as well.” Sam took a compass out of a drawer and handed it to him. “You might find your phone GPS won’t pick up a signal out there either.”

Athos nodded his thanks. “Time to go old-school.”

\--


	5. Chapter 5

Leaving Sam, Athos hiked up the trail through the forestry as fast as he could. The map indicated that the hut was some way off to the west, deep in the trees. He wasn't quite sure what he expected to accomplish that couldn't be done perfectly well by two police officers, but he also knew that Porthos was walking into a potentially dangerous situation without all the facts. 

Logically, Athos told himself he just wanted to find Porthos and update him, but he couldn't shake the instinctive feeling that something terrible was about to happen. At the same time there was an even deeper level of unease that all this might just be the sedatives making him paranoid, but he decided there was only so many times he could second-guess himself and he might as well crack on. 

He soon left the track and was following the compass heading through the trees. There was little undergrowth beneath the dark pines but everywhere looked the same, and the lower branches snatched at his hair like malicious fingers.

Pausing for breath and wondering if Porthos wasn't even now sat in the village café with a nice cup of tea, Athos froze in superstitious horror as an eerie howl drifted through the trees. Images of wolves came to mind, and he wondered for a mad moment whether some well-meaning re-wilding scheme might not have introduced some to the forest.

Then the distressed howl came again, and Athos remembered there was a dog out there somewhere. He started running. 

\--

Porthos and Sanjit had followed Pepper for some distance from the path, and Porthos was starting to hope that the little dog would be just as effective at guiding them back out again. He had no idea of his bearings, the sun had by now disappeared behind building rainclouds and the surrounding forest all looked identical. 

"We should be dropping breadcrumbs at this rate," he muttered.

Sanjit laughed then peered through the trees ahead, frowning. "Hey. I think we may have found our gingerbread house."

Sure enough, in a slight clearing sat a dark timber shack, its felted roof green with damp and rampant ivy. The slot windows were shuttered, and there was no sign of a door.

"Hello?" Porthos called out. "Anyone home? Police." 

There was no reply, but a prickling sensation between his shoulderblades told Porthos they were not alone. 

Sanjit had gone ahead, Pepper straining at her harness as she pulled him round to the other side of the building. A few paces behind them, Porthos heard a muffled thud and then a burst of furious barking.

"Sanjit?" he called. "What's going on?"

There was no reply, and Porthos rounded the corner of the hut warily. To his horror Sanjit was sprawled unmoving on the ground, Pepper snuffling anxiously at his face. When there was no response, the dog lifted up her head and gave a mournful howl.

Porthos hurried over, looking around in alarm. There was no sign of an attacker, the hut wall continued blank and unbroken, and he wondered if Sanjit could simply have tripped. Kneeling beside him he was relieved to find the man still breathing, but also discovered an ugly gash on the back of his head.

Given that Sanjit was lying face down he couldn't possibly have sustained it in the fall, and Porthos swung round in sudden realisation. The movement almost certainly saved his life, as a second later a crowbar crashed down where his head had just been.

Porthos threw himself backwards, registering in shock that he was being attacked by a woman. "What the fuck?" he spluttered, desperately rolling to one side as she had another go. "Oi! Police! Put down your weapon!"

He was trying to get his feet under him, but his boots kept slipping in the softly shifting cover of pine needles, and she was swinging at him again. The rough metal grazed his hands, flung up to protect his face, and Porthos cried out in pain. 

He knew if he could just make it to his feet he could overpower her, being twice her size, but the frenzied nature of the assault had given him no opportunity and it was all he could do to keep dodging the blows. 

She lifted the bar again, then something came down over her head and she shrieked in surprise and fury.

The unexpected respite finally gave Porthos the chance to scramble to his feet and he wrenched the crowbar out of her hand, hurling it into the trees. It was only then that he realised who his rescuer was.

"Athos? What the fuck are you doing here?" 

"Saving your arse, apparently," Athos retorted, still struggling with the woman who was fighting to get free. Porthos realised Athos had thrown his coat over her head, and had her pinioned in its folds.

"Shall I take that?" Porthos offered, and Athos gave her a shove towards him. She finally tore the coat from her head, only to be promptly seized by Porthos. 

"Lucy Hambleton, I presume?" Porthos said, finally able to get a good look at her. "You're nicked. Assault on a police officer. In fact I'd probably call that attempted murder."

"Not to mention actual murder," said Athos from where he was helping the groaning Sanjit to sit up. "The blood on her coat belonged to her husband," he explained, when Porthos gave him a look of confusion. "Check your messages."

"Can you call an ambulance?" Porthos asked him, handcuffing the still irate and struggling Lucy. 

Athos checked his phone. "No signal. But help should be on its way. I spoke to your lot earlier, gave them the map reference of this place."

"Full of surprises, you." 

"I have my good days." Athos smiled up at him, and Porthos grinned. 

Sanjit was gradually regaining awareness of his surroundings, and blinked in surprise at finding there were suddenly twice as many people around him. "What happened?"

"You found a murderer," Porthos told him. "Congratulations."

Sanjit explored the wound with his fingers and winced. "If this is what they call using your head, I don't like it."

Athos was examining the hut. A section of the wall was hinged for a door, which explained why Porthos hadn't registered where Sanjit's assailant might have been hiding. Looking inside, Athos found it set up as a cosy hideaway, with camp bed, heater and a stack of provisions. 

"Looks like she's been hiding out here for a while," he called. "Since New Year, presumably. Probably afraid she’d be recognised if she checked into a hotel somewhere."

Distant sirens could be heard wailing over the treetops, just as the first spatters of cold January rain began to fall.

"Sounds like the cavalry's coming," Porthos said. "Better late than never, eh?"

\--

Porthos walked into the interview room with a face like granite. That so much energy and money had been expended on finding a woman who had apparently stage-managed her own kidnapping had made him quietly furious.

There was also the fact it appeared she'd deliberately attempted to implicate Marcheaux in the murder of her husband, and while Porthos had no great liking for the man, he despised that level of dishonesty.

Sanjit, too, was in the hospital, although reportedly doing well. Porthos had feared a fractured skull, but apparently the man had escaped with a severe concussion. Something at least to be thankful for.

With d'Artagnan unavailable he'd considered letting Marcheaux sit in on the interview, but decided it might be too volatile a combination. Instead it was Elodie who was now sitting to his left, and having had time to reflect, Porthos thought having another woman present was no bad thing.

"Lucy Annabelle Hambleton. You have been formally charged with one count of murder, one count of grievous bodily harm, two counts of assaulting a police officer in the execution of their duty, one count of wasting police time, two counts of perverting the course of justice and one count of fraud. You've had these charges and your rights under the law explained to you, do you understand your position?"

"Yes."

"You've not asked for a solicitor to be present during this interview, you understand that we can provide one if you wish?"

Lucy shrugged sulkily. "What's the point?"

"Mrs Hambleton has waived the right to counsel," Porthos stated, for the benefit of the tape. Part of him had worried that as Athos had theoretically agreed to represent all of Ninon’s circle he might insist on also representing Lucy, but apparently the fact she'd tried her utmost to brain Porthos with a crowbar had left him less than keen on the idea. He hadn't protested when Porthos had told him to go home.

Since taking Lucy into custody they'd had a chance to properly examine the contents of the hut, and found not only a bag containing a huge amount of money, which was still being counted and presumably correlated to what Des had withdrawn, but also a large knife. It had been cleaned, but looked like being a good match for the murder weapon. 

When first arrested, Lucy had protested that she'd been kept a prisoner in the hut since her abduction, and that she'd only attacked Porthos and Sanjit thinking they were her kidnappers returning just as she'd managed to get the door open. The fact Porthos had clearly identified them as police officers as they approached argued against this, and the subsequent discovery of both murder weapon and money in her possession had gone a long way towards weakening her story.

“Why don’t you tell us what happened?” Elodie asked gently, hoping to draw her out. “Have you really been living in the woods in all this cold weather? That can’t have been nice.”

Lucy was twisting her fingers together nervously, but Porthos didn’t think he imagined the calculating expression that passed across her face, partly masked by the fall of blonde hair. He wondered how much of what she was about to say would be the truth.

“I had to get away from him,” Lucy said finally. “My husband. He was – awful.”

“You couldn’t just have left him?” Porthos asked flatly. “Divorce lawyers are a thing.”

Lucy shook her head. “I’d have been destitute. Everything belonged to him, everything was in his name. He all but owned me. He’d have made sure I never saw a penny. And he owed me, God he owed me, the years I put up with - ” 

She broke off, quickly suppressing the flash of anger. Porthos thought cynically that she was clearly banking on repentant victim working better for her than revenging angel.

“I started – saving,” she said carefully.

“We know how you made your money,” Porthos told her. Lucy looked startled and then mildly surprised. He guessed she was wondering why the list of charges hadn’t included prostitution, but it would have been difficult to go down that route without prosecuting the lot of them, and he intended to try and keep his word on that score. He’d be happy enough to secure a conviction for murder.

“It was never going to be enough,” Lucy continued. “Not to start a new life. So I came up with a plan. Nobody was ever meant to get hurt!” She looked pleadingly at Porthos, who met her gaze impassively. 

“It went wrong from the start,” Lucy sighed, having failed to get a reaction out of him. “I never imagined Des would call the police so soon. I was going to leave it a couple of days so he’d be properly worried, then send in the ransom demand. As it was, I had to tell him to try and get rid of you, ordered him not to say anything, or my life would be in danger.”

She took a sip of water, and Porthos wondered how she was going to spin the next part. 

“He wasn’t meant to be there that night. He was meant to leave the money and go. But he must have hidden, and waited. When I came to pick it up he saw me, and he attacked me. He was furious, out of control! I was defending myself, that’s all. I never meant to kill him!”

“And you just happened to be carrying a knife?” Porthos asked mildly.

“A woman sleeping alone in the woods? I was carrying it just in case,” said Lucy. “I never planned to use it on him, you have to believe me! All I wanted was the money. He owed me that much.”

Porthos considered. “You know when I might have believed you? If you’d called an ambulance for him, when it happened. Even if you hadn’t stuck around. But no, you sat him up there on that swing and left him to die. He was found by children for God’s sake! _And_ you tried to implicate one of my officers in the process.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Lucy muttered, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“That scarf. You didn’t take much when you walked out, so everything you did take would’ve been carefully selected. You left it there to deliberately point the finger at Marcheaux, and you made sure Ninon knew he was one of your clients.”

“No.”

“I think you did. Just as you fed him rubbish about you being watched, so people would think that there’d been someone after you for a while. I don’t think you’re the type of woman to accidentally stab someone Mrs Hambleton, every part of this operation was carefully planned. I think you were there waiting for your husband that night. Maybe you made it look like they were letting you go in return for bringing the ransom. Whatever, you let him get close, and then you slipped the knife in when he wasn’t expecting it. Goodbye Desmond. Nobody coming after you, to demand the money back. Hell, maybe after the heat had died down you’d’ve been able to rock up and claim his entire estate.”

“That’s not true!”

“And then when you were discovered, you assaulted two officers in what I can only assume was an attempt to silence us,” Porthos continued relentlessly. “We’d identified ourselves as police officers. Constable Chakrabarti was in uniform. You could have had no doubt as to who we were. You’re telling me you’re not a killer? That doesn’t tally with what I witnessed this morning. You nearly killed my colleague, and you tried your hardest to kill me. There is no doubt in my mind that the murder of your husband was both deliberate and planned.”

Lucy placed her hands flat on the table and looked up at him calmly.

“Prove it.”

\--

“Do you think the murder charge’ll stick sir?” Elodie asked quietly as Lucy was taken back to the cells to await transfer.

Porthos shrugged. “I bloody hope so. Still, she’s admitted stabbing him, and I don’t believe for a minute a jury’s going to buy the self-defence bollocks. It’ll be manslaughter at least.”

From where they were standing they could see Marcheaux watching Lucy being lead away, an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Got to feel sorry for him, haven’t you?” murmured Elodie.

Porthos frowned. “Why?” 

“I don’t know – first woman he’s liked in years, and she turns out to be a psycho who tries to frame him for murder.”

Porthos nodded philosophically. “It’s no wonder they got on, really.”

\--

It was late when Porthos got home that evening, and Athos greeted him with a certain amount of relief. He’d known objectively that Porthos was safe, but the events of the morning had left him more shaken than he’d let on and he’d spent most of the intervening hours quietly fretting. 

To try and take his mind off things Athos had gone to see Ninon, to break the news that Lucy had been found alive and well, but was also under arrest. It was a mixed blessing to deliver, and the atmosphere had become a little uncomfortable. Athos hadn’t felt inclined to linger.

As he walked home again, he’d reflected on how the woodland here felt different from the pine forest. Ninon’s cottage was just inside the belt of oak and beech woods that ran right up to Butcher’s Hollow. The trees here were older than those in the commercial plantation, in some cases by hundreds of years. 

At this time of year most branches were bare apart from the occasional holly tree, and Athos tried to tell himself that this was why he didn’t get the same sense of claustrophobia here that he experienced with the forestry closing in on him. Despite knowing it was irrational, he couldn’t help wondering if Lucy had been somehow influenced by something out there, some spirit of place. 

Sam had said she’d liked them to have sex outside under the pines. Athos privately thought you couldn’t have paid him to do that up there, and not only because of the pine needles. Had something called to her, some wild and savage spirit of the forest? Or had she called to it? There was more than one way of summoning spirits according to Ninon, and sex magic was one of them. Had Lucy called for the strength to leave her husband, and got more than she bargained for? Or was Athos just upset, overly medicated and over-thinking as usual?

Tonight he kept his rambling thoughts to himself and just hugged Porthos slightly harder than normal, asking instead after the progress of Sanjit, and the status of the case in general. 

Porthos was dog-tired, but well satisfied with the day’s work and gave Athos an update on everything he was able to discuss. 

“What are the chances of Billy getting that fifty pound note back?” Athos asked, as they shared a late supper. “I mean, there’s not really anyone left to claim it, right? And he found it…”

Porthos shook his head. “Theoretically I guess, but it’s logged as evidence now, and given the speed the courts work at, he’ll probably be grown up before he sees it. Sorry.”

“Oh well.” Athos suspected the boy had given up any hope of seeing it again in any case. He’d vaguely intended to give him the money himself, but accepted that handing a seven-year-old a fifty was probably a bad idea. No one would be likely to serve him for a start, and if they did Athos didn’t want to be responsible for putting him in some kind of diabetic coma from having eaten fifty quid’s worth of sweets. 

His second idea had been to give all five of them a tenner each, given that it had been pressure from the others that had made Billy give up the cash in the first place, and Mags especially deserved some kind of reward for her tip on Sam. He didn’t want to think about what might have happened to Porthos if he hadn’t got there when he did. But similarly, handing out tenners to a gaggle of small children still probably wasn’t the best idea. He sighed, and Porthos looked at him.

“What’s up?”

“I just felt those kids deserved some kind of reward, that’s all. They found the body, they found the money, and they pointed me in the direction of the hut Lucy was hiding out in.”

Porthos laughed. “Sod the reward, sounds like I should be giving them all jobs.”

“I’m serious.” Athos smiled. “Can’t we do something?”

“How about a cream tea?” Porthos suggested. “Pay for them all to have a meal at the Copper Kettle. Square it with their parents first, and leave ‘em to it. That way you won’t look like the village paedo.”

Athos gave him a slap and Porthos snickered delightedly. “Tell you what, I’ll sort it if you want, make it a police-sponsored thing. We could do with some good publicity for a change.”

“Would you? It’s a great idea, they’ll love it.” Athos kissed him. “Thank you.”

Porthos shrugged. “Wouldn’t even have occurred to me if you hadn’t said. You’re a sweetheart.” He grinned. “But your secret’s safe with me.” 

\--

As they were getting ready for bed that night, Athos fancied he heard a distant howl on the wind and shuddered, pulling the heavy bedroom curtains tightly closed.

"Ninon was right," he mused.

"What about?"

"She said there was something pitiless out there. Something that wanted blood. I just never thought it would turn out to be Lucy."

"Try and persuade her not to put that in her testimony, yeah?" 

Athos snorted, going out to take his turn in the bathroom. Porthos got undressed and into his pyjamas, pulling Athos’ dressing gown on for good measure against the winter chill.

There was something in the pocket, and he took it out without thinking, registering it was Athos’ pill diary just as Athos came back into the bedroom.

"What are you doing?"

"What? Nothing, I – " Porthos broke off as Athos flew at him, trying to wrench the diary from his hand. Taken by surprise Porthos let him take it, only to snatch it back as Athos immediately tried to rip it to pieces. 

"Hey, what are you doing? Stop it!" 

"No! Give it to me! You have no right!" Athos lunged for it again and Porthos held it out of reach, shocked by Athos’ sudden burst of wild hysteria.

"Athos? What’s wrong?" Porthos wrapped his arms around Athos’ flailing limbs, afraid he was going to do one of them an injury. He could feel him shuddering, but couldn’t tell if it was anger, shock or something else. Athos hardly seemed in control of himself, and Porthos just held him tightly until he felt him gradually calming down.

"It’s alright. It’s alright," Porthos soothed. "You’re okay. I’ve got you."

When Athos had finally stopped shaking, Porthos handed him back the diary. If he wanted to destroy it that was his prerogative, but it was a choice to make calmly, not in a fit of rage and fear.

Athos took it from him numbly, but made no attempt to do anything with it.

"I didn’t read it," Porthos said quietly. "I wouldn’t do that to you. I just found it in the pocket, that’s all. I didn’t know what it was until I took it out."

Athos leaned against him tiredly. "Sorry," he sighed. Porthos kissed him on the side of the head, wrapping his arms around him again, this time comfortingly.

"It’s okay."

Eventually Athos pulled away again, shutting the diary into the dressing table drawer before sinking down onto the bed. Porthos experienced a sense of slight relief that at least Athos hadn’t felt the need to hide it from him, or lock it away. 

"So, you want to talk about it?" he murmured.

"What?"

"Whatever caused that spectacular over-reaction?" Porthos sat next to Athos on the bed, and put an arm around him. "Is there something in that book you don’t want me to see?"

Athos stiffened, but said nothing. Porthos gave him a squeeze, glad that he hadn’t pulled away. "I’d never go behind your back," he promised quietly. "But you can talk to me you know. About anything."

Athos sighed, drained now of both anger and resistance. "I’ve been taking – fractions," he admitted after a long pause. "Quarters, halves."

"Sounds like a good way to wean yourself off?" Porthos ventured, feeling there must be more to it.

Athos bit his lip. "I’ve not been taking them to sleep. I’ve been taking them to get through the day."

Porthos closed his eyes. "You’ve been using them as tranqs?"

"Yeah," Athos breathed. "I was so nervous. That first day back – not even back, but starting somewhere new – I just needed something to take the edge off. And then the first day became the first week, and then there was all the pressure of the case, and - " he hesitated. "I tried to stop again. One day I didn’t take anything. I made it as far as lunchtime, and thought I was going to die."

Porthos gathered him in, and held him close. 

"Aren’t you going to tell me off?" Athos asked, muffled slightly by the fact his face was buried in Porthos’ shoulder. 

"What good would that do? If I want you to confide in me, it’s not going to help giving you lectures is it?" Porthos sighed. "Besides, what could I say that you don’t already know, probably better than me?"

"I’ve fucked up," Athos whispered miserably.

"Fuck ups are temporary," Porthos told him. "Fuck ups can be fixed."

"Even me?"

Porthos laughed. "Even you."

"I need to get off them," Athos said, sitting up and rubbing his face. "For good. And I’ve tried cutting down gradually and it just doesn’t work. I always find a reason for it to creep up again."

"Are you talking about going cold turkey?"

"I think it’s the only chance I’ve got of kicking them," Athos said bleakly.

"Won’t be easy."

"Not for you, anyway." Athos gave him a wry smile. "I’ll be a fucking nightmare, I can almost guarantee it."

"I can cope," Porthos promised. "I love you. And we’ll do whatever it takes. If you’ve got the will-power, I’ve got the patience." 

Athos smiled. "What I lack in willpower, I like to think I make up for in bloody-mindedness. But I will need your help."

"What about work?" Porthos asked. "Can you manage? And while we’re on the subject, why didn’t you tell me you were so nervous about going back in the first place?" 

Athos shrugged. "I suppose I’ve always felt I had to fight my own battles." He took hold of Porthos’ hand, toying with his fingers. "As for Drew, I’m going to have to tell him. I may need time away, so he’ll have to know why."

"Do you think he’ll understand?"

"If he doesn’t, it’ll be one less thing to worry about," Athos joked, and Porthos winced.

"He’s not going to fire you!"

"Perhaps. I wouldn’t blame him if he did."

"I would!"

"My hero." Athos kissed him.

“I’m sorry,” Porthos murmured contritely. “I’ve been so wrapped up in my own worries I never noticed you were having problems.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Athos said. “I’m very good at hiding it. And I have been.”

“No more, okay? No more hiding,” Porthos coaxed. “We deal with stuff together from now on.” Athos raised an eyebrow and he sighed. “Alright, yes, including looking for my father.”

“You’ve decided then?”

Porthos nodded slowly. “I’ll always wonder, won’t I? If I don’t.”

“If you don’t like what you find, you don’t have to have anything to do with him,” Athos pointed out. “Nobody’s going to force you to play happy families.”

“Far as I’m concerned, my family’s right here,” Porthos said softly. 

Athos smiled, and climbed into his lap. “In that case, let’s see about getting you out of my dressing gown, shall we? And into something more comfortable. Like, me.”

\--


End file.
